Not Like That

In this dream I had, we were walking together. I’m not sure where we were, or even where we were going, or why we were alone, but it was outside and I think it was night. It might have been Manhattan or it might have been Jersey City. It might have even been Brooklyn.

Every so often, we’d come to a certain nameless corner or an underpass of some sort, and we’d stop and kiss. This happened over and over again, all along our walk. We were both smiling.

The kisses were very good: passionate and maybe a bit desperate, but still kind and sweet.

I asked you: “Does it make you happy?”

And you responded quickly: “No. It makes me feel awful.”

This only somewhat surprised me. Though I didn’t want it, I certainly expected it. Maybe, then, it didn’t surprise me at all. Maybe I already knew it.

“Then we should stop,” I said.

Smiling still, you asked: “Why?”

“I don’t want to do this if it makes you feel awful. I want this to make you feel happy.”

You shrugged your shoulders and continued smiling, happiness becoming irrelevant.

Together, we kept walking, soon making our way to another stopping point, another nameless corner, or an underpass of some sort.

I turned towards you and put my arms around your lower back – reaching, grabbing, tugging, tugging. And you, pulling your shirt up so that I could easily slide my hands beneath and feel your cool skin, smiled: “Not like that.”