I know how this dream ends

I dreamt of you last night. It's funny. I hardly, if ever, dreamt of you when we were together. But now that you're out of my life, there you were. Maybe my subconscious was just trying to fill the void.

In the dream, I drove six hours to see you. As I approached your house, I could see you were having a big party. The doors were open and cars were parked up and down the street. I decided I would just pass by, that it would be better that way. It was enough just to have been there, to see that you were doing OK.

But then I found myself sitting in the floor against your bedroom wall. I was alone. The party was going on in another part of the house. There was a letter lying on your bed. I thought, hoped, that you were writing it to me. That maybe it would clear up some of my questions. Questions I'd had since you told me you were going away for the weekend and that we'd talk when you got back, but we had never talked.

I picked it up and started to read, then felt guilty for doing so. There must be a reason you never sent it. Maybe you weren't ready for me to see it, or maybe it wasn't meant for me at all. Still, I read. It appeared to be unfinished and the name of the intended recipient was missing or rubbed out.

Then you were there. You seemed sympathetic towards me, but unwavering. We spoke, though I don't remember what was said. It was over. Your feelings had changed and nothing I could do would ever change them back.

As I started to leave, others were there. I looked at the faces of the people I passed, wondering if these were the "friends" you so often spoke of, and wondering which of them had taken my place in your heart.

One of the guys, a short fellow, said something about how pathetic it was that I had driven all that way for nothing. I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall a couple of times. He didn't say anything else.

The last thing I remember, I was driving, ever conscious of the fact that I was getting farther and farther from you...

So often, dreams provide a welcome escape from reality. An alternate world where love is requited and fantasies come true. How cruel it seemed then that even in my dreams, I couldn't make us work. To dream something I never wanted. To dream a dream that had already come true.

"She's out of my life. She's out of my life. And I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I don't know whether to live or die. And it cuts like a knife..."

Capote

Please stop by and wish Pia a Happy Two-Year Bloggiversary. (This is the only acceptable spelling of the word and I plan to have it officially recognized as such by the OED.) Anyway, she reposted her very first blog entry, and it truly is excellent.

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It was a Friday. The phone wasn't ringing, or plans had fallen thru, or something. That seemed to be happening slightly more frequently with each month torn off the calendar. It was mid-September and I had just wadded up August and tossed it at the trash can sitting in the corner of the room. I missed. The phone rang. It was Dawn.

I don't remember exactly when I met Dawn. I remember being struck by a splendid piece she had written. About the same time, she had become a fan of my writing. We began corresponding. And later, talking.

"Hello, Doll." We flirted like that, as much as that can be considered flirting. "Whatcha doing?"
"Nothing." I gave my standard, albeit more often than not accurate, answer. "You?"
"Mother's in town. We're getting ready for the shower on Sunday. What are your plans for tonight, Doll?"
"No plans. I think I might go to the bookstore."
"And get what?" Her genuine curiosity came thru in the tone, if not the words.
"I don't know. If you could choose one book to recommend, what would it be?"

She responded with a book and author I'd never heard of, which wasn't at all unusual. Dawn was very well read. I was embarrassed at not having read more. But at the same time, I loved these conversations when we would talk about books and authors. Her voice would come alive. It was as if she were talking about her very hopes and dreams.

From time to time, I would prod her for more information. She had a good grasp of my interests, and was typically a good judge of what I would like, and what I might not. I would ask her what she thought of some book I had heard of but had never read. Trying to get more ideas. More names. More books.

Sometimes she would spout off author after author after book after book. Usually faster than I could jot them down. Some I'd heard of. A very few I'd read. Without telling her, I would always look up online the ones she mentioned, and read about the authors. It was exciting to me, too. I felt like I was learning.

She went on to give me several ideas on this particular Friday. Among them, Capote, whom embarrassingly, I'd never read.

I made a mental note of as many of the names as I could remember. Put on jeans, a polo shirt, and flip-flops. It was still more summer than autumn. I picked up August, wadded it even tighter in my hand, and threw it away. Then hurried downstairs and out into the night.

The nearest decent bookstore was a twenty minute drive. I didn't mind at all. It was good to be out. I spent an hour in the bookstore that night. Among the four books I bought was Breakfast At Tiffany's. I chose to read it first. It was around 1:00 in the morning when I laid down and began to read.

The desire to sleep took over after just a few pages that night. But from the very first line, I was captivated. It was brilliant. Every line, perfect. Every word, so carefully chosen. I could not believe that someone could write so well. It was breathtaking.

When I finished the book the following night, I wished it wasn't over. I wished that he had written a thousand more. I felt inspired.

The only thing I can think to compare it to was when I had read To Have And Have Not, my first Hemingway. I would say it even surpassed that, except that it feels like blasphemy to say such a thing.

"You'll say the world has come between us. Our lives have come between us. But I know you just don't care..."