Dream Journal: A Slow Nightmare of Pre-Dating

It was dark where we were. That, I remember.

I could not remember what we were watching, whether it was a movie, or a play, or a concert, only that it was her sitting beside me on the bleacher’s bench. It was night, and the day probably took its toll on her, so after a few minutes, I felt her head leaning closer, closer, until it was resting on my shoulder. And I felt my arm inching slowly, slowly, until it was around her. And I felt myself pulling her slightly, slightly closer. I remember trying to memorize, to immortalize the moment: the way she smelled, the way her ponytail lay on my arm and her head on my shoulder, the way the color of her dress complimented the color of her skin, the peace that I saw in her closed eyes and cautious breaths.

I could not remember if I kissed her. If I did, I could not remember where: on the forehead as she slept, the way a father kisses his daughter good night, or the more affectionate one on the cheek, or maybe on the lips, trying to seal away her doubts, fears and the stresses of the day that led to this.

I do not remember anything else that happened that night.

I remember waking up the next day to see two people lounging by the swimming pool (I cannot remember whose house it was, or if it was even one I had been to before); a girl floating on a rubber ring, and a boy sitting on the side, both greeting me with grimaces. I ask them who they are, and they tell me that they are her friends, and that they had to take her away before I woke up. I ask if I will ever have the chance to see her again, and the stern shaking of their heads says it all.

I wake up for real, feeling more tired than when I fell asleep.

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