My friend and I are traveling together to another state, maybe rural New Jersey, maybe far off Long Island. We are on the bus. He takes out a year book of pictures of people we know and points out this woman I know. He tells me she is very cute, smiles and puts the book away. I agree she is cute and say so. Yes, she is cute. We step off the bus and meet the girl who is cute. She's part of a large gypsy family. My friend and I both prepare books and letters for the girl who will soon be going on a trip. My friend's gifts and letters are more thoughtful than mine. I'm certain he's in love with her and feel jealous, but try not to show it. I sprint out of the door for a run around the neighborhood. I run through the living rooms of neighbors. Through rush hour traffic and a November loss of sunlight. It begins to rain. I'm back at the house with my friend and the the girl. We put her on a bus and wave goodbye. It's hard for my friend to say goodbye to her. We walk up the street and see the girl hiding behind a bush. She's having a meltdown and can't go anywhere. Her eyes shake. We bring her to her brother's house and watch as her siblings conduct music in the dark. She's alone and beautiful. She's not who I want to be.
My friend lives with his mother in a suburban warehouse somewhere in Ohio or Tennessee. They have separate beds positioned close to each other. I assume their relationship is closer than any other mother and son in the world. I smell the sweetness of this, my heart burns for my own mother. There are several artist friends who begin to trickle in and out. We talk about things made and things to make. Laughter doesn't belong in the conversation. Someone says Go! I begin to run down a hall, seeing myself from behind, I notice my gate, the slight askew position of my hips as I run with one foot in front of the other. Hips even out. I run faster and am surprised how normal I look from behind.
My husband and I are on a date in Dublin. We take the bus down to the "alphabet city" version of Dublin, looking for a specific restaurant. It's dusk and the sun squeezes through purple storm clouds. I notice a wetness on the cobblestones as though it's been raining. At some point we get lost and lose one and other. My bike appears. It's a folding Dutch bike and I carry it instead of ride it. It's light in my hand. I begin to run, looking for my husband, but not fearful that I won't find him. It's a playful run and I'm enjoying being lost in this city. I walk into a bike shop and am surprised something so new exists in a building so old. A man in the bike shop tells me to call my therapist, so I do without hesitation. She tells me to come meet her and her husband at the other side of town. I walk me and my bike several blocks away, thinking that my husband will find me, knowing that he'll know where I am. I walk up the stairs to my therapist's house. When she opens her door I see that she's Donna Reed. I'm slightly star struck. Her house is filled with porcelain knick knacks. I shake her much older husband's hand by the warmth of their fireplace.
The alarm wakes me up and I'm disappointed to have been taken from this dream.