“So I had this dream about you…” she began, with no prelude.
And there never was with her. A prelude. Just this perpetual sense of picking up right where we left off, no matter how many days or years or lifetimes had gone by.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked, amused, and happier to hear from her than I should have been.
“Because it was blue, and the ocean was blue, and everything was blue, just the color of your eyes.” And that’s when I knew it was her. Really her. Because only she would say things like that to me. Could say things like that to me. Others had expressed their admiration, or been beguiled by the sparkling smile there, but I have never had much of a palate for gushing.
“Well, what happened?” I encouraged her, desperately fighting the urge to ask instead all the dull and normal questions, like “How are you liking your new house?” or “How’s the weather there?” or “Do you ever think of me…going out to lunch? …getting caught in the rain?…in that soft-lit moment between sleep and waking?”
“The ocean was there. And we were there. And I wandered too far. And you saved me.”
“That sounds…about right,” I said, knowing she would know what I meant. Because she always did.
I heard her sigh, and knew I was right.
“We talked. You put your arm around me, and we watched the sun set red, then purple gold, then gone.”
“What did we talk about?” I asked.
“I wish I knew,” she said.
“I do too.”
“Maybe someday,” I offered.
“Yes, maybe,” she said.
And then we just sat there, listening to each other breathe. For a long, long, long, long time.
Eventually, she or I hung up. With no “I love you,” spoken or necessary.
It was back to our real lives. Mostly silence. And longing. Some warm, what-if maybes.
Until the next time…