Short story snippet III

I am developing a character who suffers from intense loneliness, who casts a perfectly pathetic image wherever she goes. I'm basing it on the person I think I am when in the fog of a pity party. So this character is not me, but it could be me. Or you. Or that person next to you staring disconsolately into a cup of coffee.

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I had that dream I hate. I have it once or twice a year, always waking with a sob and always feeling the same. Cold, alone, vulnerable. I’m almost ashamed to talk about it, because my sister don’t understand why this dream should devastate me so.

The actual circumstances are ordinary – at the office, in an airport waiting area, in a grocery store. It’s usually just me with a man – a man that I love and who obviously loves me. The conversation is not memorable. The events even less so.

What shakes me is the touch.

In my dream, he may extend a hand to caress one cheek and kiss my neck. Or I may rest my head on his shoulder, letting my hand drop against his warm chest. When I wake up, I can still feel the weight of his palm against my face, or remember exactly how solid his belly was under my fingers.

It reminds me of everything that I don’t have. The grief washes over me and I am unable to prepare my breakfast.

The worst part is, the dream lover is usually someone I know and wish I could love. Or someone I once knew and loved. The pain is more acute once I remember who he was. At least if it were a stranger or a minor character from my life, I could swiftly sweep the dream from my mind. But the fact that it's someone known – cherished – just makes it harder.

And so I cry a little, angry at my dreams for sabotaging my sleep.