A Lucid Dream

She knocked and I opened the door. There she was, smiling at me, and I loved that look, that moment. I’d spent hours getting the small apartment ready—so little space, so much to sort through. She came in and took her shoes off, moving through the rooms like she was cataloging everything. The photos, the desk, the shelves. I couldn’t stop watching her move.

We were on the bed when she knocked his plush toy—some talking Patrick I’d gotten from Ana before I left—onto the floor. Face down. I picked him up and said, stupidly proud, He talks. I pressed his stomach to prove it but nothing happened. The batteries had gone dead, which was probably for the best since I’d been careful not to press him since moving to Berlin. I set him back down.

We’d rented a movie from the video place next door. The opening was funny enough and she leaned into me slowly. I ran my fingertips across her skin, felt her respond. Halfway through, I stopped caring about what was playing. All I wanted was her breath on my neck, her hands on my back, her voice in my ear.

She was fighting herself. You could see it. She kept pulling back because she was with someone else. No kissing, she wouldn’t let me kiss her—I could read those words on her face. So I found other places. I bit her neck, pressed her into the corner, explored the parts of her she would let me reach. She’d lean in and push away, come close and refuse, and I watched her walls come down one piece at a time. I wanted her. Not just that night. That was the difference. I wanted to be with her while we managed this wildfire we’d started, keep it burning but keep it ours.