Linda E.

I dreamed about you this morning. Again. After so long, now, it seems my mind just can’t let you go.

It was a different setting, but the usual scenario. If memory doesn’t fail me, as it can with such dreams, this time you were working in the office to where I had traveled in the process of doing my job. That’s how it always is: the chance meeting some place where I’d never imagine finding you.

You were cordial, nice. You acknowledged that you knew who I was after so many years, seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see you.

It was the moment I’ve been waiting 25 years for, yet I couldn’t blurt out in front of your co-workers, nor in front of mine, the words that I want to say to you. We know our history; they don’t need to know about it.

And yet you seemed keen to avoid getting into a situation where you would be alone with me. Was it in my eyes? Did I telegraph to you that I had something to say?

You left the room and were gone so long I feared I wouldn’t get the chance to say it to you. Why do I wish to say it? Is it a hope for getting you back? Of course not. We’ve each lived a lifetime since we last saw each other, and our lives have followed their courses. It didn’t work 25 years ago; why would I ever think it could work now?

Is it to save face? No. What I did then was so stupid, even I am disgusted with myself. Maybe I’d let you have your say about it. Do you still care?

What is it then? Why do you still haunt my thoughts and dreams?

I think I know. In this morning’s dream I said it aloud to someone in the room, told her why I wanted to see you, why you animate my waking thoughts so often, why I fantasize about the moment.

It’s because I want to tell you that I’m sorry for my actions on that day 25 years ago. I know; no one was hurt or damaged, but I sure didn’t shine in my best light then. That’s not who I am, or was, or aspire to be. It couldn’t possibly be.

I want to tell you that I hope your life has turned out as you hoped it would and, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, with whomever you’re doing it, I hope you have found the happiness I couldn’t bring you.

Maybe then, if I knew that you knew, maybe then I could go through a day without thinking about you at least once, wondering if you ever think about me, if you ever wonder what I’m doing at this very moment, just as I wonder about you. Maybe, if I could close that door that’s swung open for 25 years, maybe you wouldn’t visit my sleep any more.

And then you appeared in the hallway. In the psychedelia that is a dream, now you wore what resembled a wedding gown. You were alone. It was my chance. I approached you from behind. I spoke your name. Your cell-phone rang. You held up a finger and took the call.

And then my wife’s alarm clock sounded, and you faded into the murk.

The dream was over, but you’ve haunted my thoughts all day. Again.