in dreams
Should we waste them? Dreams? I wanted to bank this one. The van was parked close to the gray, wooden guardrails of a deserted beachside lot. White sand and low-growing creepers drifted over the edges of the worn pavement. I was standing on the guardrail, trying to unfurl a large expanse of cloth over the roof. Damp perhaps? The wind off the water was buffeting me and threatening to snatch it from my hands. Securing the fabric somehow was a two-person job, and I was alone. A battered SUV pulled up, boards and bags roped to the top. The driver hopped out and rushed to grab my flapping sail from the passenger side. Was it sail? I dream about sailboats often. Sailing in easy water. He was young. Twenties young. Dark, shaggy-haired, unshaven, weathered, and as wet as if he'd just stepped out of the sea. T-shirt and shorts stuck to him, water running out of his sandals. He was grinning and laughing as he rushed around to my side of the van to grab me down from the fence and hugged me l...