I dreamed of you again.
You were finally alone, which you never are when I've seen you. It makes me wonder what you'd do if you were.
You had been away a long, long time, and I ran into you at home. Your mom and brother were so happy to see you. I had been up for three days without sleep, and was preparing to return to San Francisco. A pair of someone else's pants was mixed in with mine and, not thinking, I put them on.
When you and I spoke you were very quiet. You didn't say much but your brown eyes fixed on me intently. I saw your eyes flick to the pants I was wearing. "Oh, my God," I said, "Are these yours?"
"No, they're my wife's pants," you said, sitting down. Is it just me or did you emphasize the word wife a little too much? I thought. My next thought was, I must've lost weight. She's skinnier than me! And the thought after that was one that recalled the suspicion I always had that you wanted a skinny art chick who rode bikes and enjoyed things like finding meaning in repetitive wallpaper. (Remember our little joking arguments about that kind of stuff? I hate to point out that I was right, but if the chamois fits...)
When I woke up I was so irritated that I'd focused on my fucking weight in that dream. Then I felt moody and morose.
Must. Bake. Cookies.