Dream Girls (Not the forthcoming Beyonce movie.)
I’ll be doing something normal. Playing basketball. (In Europe for some reason.) Fighting crime in Hawaii. (With a mustache, of course.) Attending movie night at the Playboy Mansion. (In my jammies, obviously.)
Then you’ll arrive.
You’ll be a friend of a friend. Or sometimes you’ll be someone’s cousin.
I’ll say “Hi.” You’ll say, “Hi.”
Then you’ll smile.
I’ll tell my friends that I am sitting out the next basketball game. (Or tell the cops that they’ll have to catch the Oahu cat burglar on their own. ) (Or ask Hef to keep the bunnies off my lap.)
We’ll talk. I’ll later forget everything we discussed, but I’ll feel like I’m enjoying the crap out of it while it’s happening.
You’ll look different each time. You’ll dress differently. And you’ll have a different name. (At least I think you will. I can never quite hear it when you tell me.)
But, the feeling will always be the same. It’ll feel…
The dream will never last long enough. Maybe five minutes. Perhaps even ten. And the next day you’ll start fading from memory as soon as I open my eyes.
There is nothing I can do about it.
The romantic in me will see it as some kind of relationship foreshadowing. A harbinger of a future love.
The realist in me will see it as a random amalgamation of thoughts, images and people that have crossed through my mind that day.
The optimist in me will think that while the person isn’t real, maybe, just maybe, that feeling of rightness is.
I think we’re going to go with that guy. He always seems to be just the right amount of delusional.
Time for me to jump in the shower, as you continue to fade from my mind.
Hopefully next time you’ll speak up a little when I ask you your name.