I live for my dreams (both daydreams and those that happen while I slumber) and for fantasies. Sometimes they are the only things that help me retain a shred of optimism.
A few weeks ago I had a very Atonement-like dream about DA and I. I was wearing a long, elegant satin gown and waiting in a darkened room that was outfitted with worn oak wood. Wood booths, wood countertops, wood wall partitions. The room was hazy with wine, smoke, and romance. I was alone at the bar with a rich glass of wine. Maybe I was waiting for someone, waiting for him, or maybe I was just looking for a scandalous liaison.
No matter because soon DA came into the room, jaw-droppingly gorgeous in a crisp, fitted tuxedo, all long lines and elegant gait. He grabbed me by the hand and off we went scurrying through hallways and door frames and stairways until we got to what looked like private telephone booths with doors that locked behind you. He took me into one of those dim, cramped booths and kissed me passionately, much like James McAvoy and Keira Knightley do in that scene where they finally unleash their passion for one another in the library.
It was a glorious, heart-pounding rush of excitement, but the dream ended too soon.
In the meantime, DA writes me teasing, knowing things like, “If there is somebody who will appreciate [this band] in the same way that I do, I believe that you could be the one” and a subject line of “What can not be, but is.” Does he realize how loaded that phrase is? And if so, did he choose it purposely? Oh oh oh, will I ever know?
