A Dream of Becky

Thing is, guys like me, when we dream, we dream hard.

With all that was going on, you’d think I’d dream of blind men, murder, intrigue, monstrous killers in theaters—but no. I dreamed about Becky. The One That Got Away.

Becky and I were on a raft on lake Witchiwa, it was the summer we were sixteen, and we were breathing hard from the swim.

When this actually happened, this was where she told me she was leaving. It was the last time I saw her. She was killed that night.

But in the dream it went differently. We made love ont hat floating platform, sunlight glinting off the wavelets dappling our skin, and we whispered of our love into each other’s ears.

And then the wind picked up, and clouds scudded across the sun, and we clutched each other for warmth. Rain started, and thunder, and our breath was snatched away by the wind before we could draw it in.

And then sometihng, something dark, rose from the waters and swallowed us and I was falling through an endless night, alone, crying her name.

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