It's always the same dream. The one I think about when I'm not sleeping.
It's always the same face -- one I cannot make out quite yet. Perhaps it's because I don't know the face, or perhaps it's because I'm not ready to know that I know the face.
There is always music. A hum. A record. And a twirl in the kitchen. He always likes to dance. He always wants to twirl me around, and I let him, in this dream, because I know how much I love him.
There are hardwood floors. Ones that creak and cry beneath feet. We wear socks to keep our bodies warm above the floor, and because outside there is cold air that sends shivers through our home.
I can smell breakfast. I hear it sizzling on a burner. And I can smell cotton in his hair from a good night's sleep. And it's every which way, pressed against one side of his head and sticking straight up on the other side. And his face scratches the side of mine because each morning he refuses to shave.
The wind hits the window, but we hardly notice. And a glass of orange juice runs over, but that doesn't matter, either. And the worries from the week are somehow absent in this particular morning. Because all I see is you, and somehow all you see is me. And it's spectacular.
I don't know how we do it, even in the dream. The day in and the day out, which I know goes so much against our outlook on life. We are, in some ways, the very thing our young selves feared, but secretly hoped for. Yet we are better. We are better than the initial judgments and assumptions.
The kitchen air is warm, even though the floor is cold. And you sing some words in my ear, as I scratch food onto a plate. And it doesn't have to be anything more than that.
It doesn't have to be any more and it certainly isn't any less.