A Dream pt. 1
I have this dream, maybe it's more of an idea, or plan. If you never act on it, is it still a plan? An idea that never comes to fruition is the definition of a dream, no? I guess you can tell me once you see this, decide for yourself if it can be placed next to my wildest dreams of flight and perfect hair. My dreams arranged on a shelf like books, organized by how much I want them to transition into reality. An entire library of hopes and dreams, with one book far more worn than the rest of them. This dream. This repeating dream that makes me count the hours until I close my eyes and we are reunited again.
The dream is pretty straightforward, as far as dreams go. First I'll fly in on a Friday afternoon, it's important that I arrive in time for dinner. I'll take the train to my hotel, drop off my luggage, and freshen up a bit. I've told you that I get in at 3, but really I'll land at 2; this will give me some extra time to prepare for dinner. I'll hop into the shower first, I can't stand the feeling of travel on my skin, the grit and grime of unwanted bodies too close. Hotel showers always have better pressure than the one at home. Don't get me wrong, there's a nice familiarity with my shower that can't be understated; all my stuff is where I like it, I know how to turn it off. It's a great shower, but there's something alluring about the unknown and the new. I'll play with this new and unfamiliar shower that is so far from home. I'll hold it's knobs and twist and pull, experimenting with this set-up, trying to see how I can make it work. It will start suddenly, the water flowing consistently, and will be hot enough that I can feel the steam starting to rise from the cold tile and up my body, gently adding warmth to my skin. I will feel the warm kiss of droplets on my neck.
Once everything has heated up enough, I'll step in and embrace the spray of the shower. I'll be sure to remove anything I may have picked up along the way and everything I brought from home. A fresh start will replace what I had accumulated, and I'll watch the drain collect what had once been a part of the delicate ecosystem of my self. As I stare at the drain, my mind will idle to my former husband. Our (my) apartment still smells like him, I can't seem to exorcise the last few bits of him. But anything from that place that was on my skin will sit the drain, washed away. He said he thought he knew me. I told him so did I.