Friday, February 08, 2002
Taking a brief recess before I am forced to begin regainning control of the runaway semi this day is sure to turn into. Only moments removed from sleeping, I can still remember parts of dreams and replay them in my head over and over. Mr. Perfect was recast in the role of himself, his arms wrapped around my waist, his beautiful face nestled right against mine. He kept us there for hours, talking about music, and movies, and my recent travels around the world on a pontoon boat. He asked for my number and promised to call soon. "This isn't real," I heard myself say,"You'll wake up and he won't have your number and he won't want to call. Everything will go back to the way it was before you fell asleep." Some times, I hate myself for hoping.
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