Last night I dreamt we went to Paris. At our first stop you pretended to be my father. You put your arms around me and kissed my forehead and told me you were so proud of me. The tourists looking on cooed: What a wonderful father. I wish my dad and I had that kind of relationship. I told you I loved you and I meant it.
Our next stop was a bistro we’d been to years ago—under new ownership now—and you pretended we were lovers again. We found two seats at the bar, just right of middle in view of the menu written on a mirror in faded gold letters. We remembered that menu from before and tried to order lunch but the new owner placed paper before us instead: New owner, new menu. She told us about her favorites and we struggled with the French and ordered beers instead of food even though I wanted the salade de saumon that you said had too much stuff in it. And as happens in dreams musical chairs ensued; I woke up frustrated and angry the third time someone stole my seat.
I remember sitting at the bar and looking over and counting the lines on your face, so carefully curated in the years since we were last together, thinking how sad that I should have missed the gentle placement of each one. In a kinder world those would have been mine but the world is not kind and they belong to someone else now. Absence makes the heart grow fonder they say, but you know I don’t believe what they say. I do wonder what absence does, though. Does it crystalize one’s worth for better or for worse? Does it answer the question you asked me so long ago: What is the point? No man is an island but I might be.
I got out of bed to write this but I don’t know why I
bothered; no one wants to hear about your dreams.
