One Hundred and Forty Four

I had a dream of you, of us, last night.

You were sleeping in my bed, resting on your side, cuddled up beside me, and I stroked your cheek lightly, drawing a sleepy contented smile. And suddenly an actor appeared standing, at the foot of my bed, standing there sternly with unjudgingeyes, hands at his side, he recited Hamlet's lines to Ophelia. And his eyes slowly raked from mine to your sleeping body, and try as I did to shield you, he stopped speaking. And he pointed at you with a professional tone.

"That won't last," he said with an air of familiarity, "That won't work. You won't let it." And I scrambled to reach him, to push him down like a standing piece of paper, to crumple him to the ground, dissolve his words into the carpet, but the covers, and your arm now suddenly around my waist, held me down.

"You'll be trapped,"he observed, "You can't do this. You're not like the rest of them. You're not built for this." And the covers tightened moreso around my waist and I was suddenly strapped to the bed, fighting your arm off me, fighting the suffocating bedsheets. His eyes went kinder, and for the briefest of moments, I saw my parents in his misunderstanding, condescending, sorry sorry eyes.

"You're not built for this," he repeated as he shook his head in disappointment. And then with a blink he was gone, and you withdrew your hand from my waist to put beneath your head, and the covers went loose around my legs, and I laid awake in the night, staring at the ceiling, feeling the room inhale and exhale with me. I remember turning to you, slowly, before reaching out and pulling you closer, close enough to feel your heartbeat.