Barely awake

All three close male friends I have had, had names started with Ds. Two actually had the same name, except one said his with a French accent.

We talk for hours, forget the time…

I’m writing this at four thirty in the morning occasionally glancing at my single bed. Imagining crumpled sheets, and seeing the outline of my body snugged under a red comforter. The other day my new lover woke me up in the middle of a dream. He whispered soothing words as he wrapped his arms around me. The first time I heard that I dream was from one of the Ds. He said it to me holding a triangle egg sandwich as we waited for the ski lift to open. He told me that I was hurt. And that I cried in my sleep. He’s a light sleeper. I didn’t believe him.

Ariel and Skye speak of dreams. It’s one of their favorite subjects while we drive for hours in search of an onsen. In the back seat I grow silent. I focus on trees, rice paddies, and the sound of moving water. My only contribution is the same sentence, “I don’t dream.”

We had to share a room in our first day in the tropics. I was on my way to volunteer at an orphanage in Thailand. He had already arrived at his destination. I woke up with my arm in the air and his hand on my wrist. No words were traded. We fell back to sleep. In the morning he said that I dreamt a violent dream. I denied it and hid the imprints of his finger tips.

It’s five I could see a silhouette of a man walking across the street. I have three more papers to write and 200 pages of Mary Shelley to read. But first, sleep.