‘I dreamed about you last night, and I fell out of bed twice’
Reel around the fountain – The Smiths
In my dream you have a boy. An actual, real life (dreamlife) boyfriend. I am with you both, at one point in the dream. He is definitely young, much younger than you, and cute. And you are into him. That’s what I notice the most. That you are really into him.
Later I find myself alone (as I often do, in dreams, and awake), and suddenly it hurts. I open my laptop and look at your blog where I see you have written about him. Imagine! Even I have never done that- blogged about a lover immediately after being with him. That’s why I don’t count as a real sex blogger. That is why nobody cares who I am, or who I will or will not fuck next. Nobody is waiting on updates about my love life (they would be waiting a long time). And I know you don’t either. We are both reticent in our own ways. But in my dream you do. And in my dream I feel that painfully familiar feeling of nausea and a falling into my stomach, that comes from realising I’ve been had. From realising I’ve duped myself into believing something was there that wasn’t. From telling myself a lie. It’s the taste of jealousy and loss that wakes me up.
Now I am in what they tell me is reality. It is broad daylight, not the murky half-darkness of dreamworld. Now the nausea has subsided and the sharpness of all the jealousies I have ever felt in my entire life is no longer inserting itself in my chest, like a dagger. Now I know that nothing happened. That you don’t have a boyfriend. That even if you did it wouldn’t hurt me like it did in my dream. In fact I’d probably be happy for you-though you would not escape a fair amount of teasing. A boyfriend! Whatever next?! Will I be receiving a wedding invitation before the year is out?!
And yet. I am still a little loathed to click on your URL. To go to your blog and search for signs of life. What if my dream was true after all? For every dream contains within it some grain of truth or other. Freud has taught us that at least, if nothing else. What if there is a reference however oblique, to a person in your life? A real one. More real than me.
For I know I am just pixels on a screen. Messages in your inbox. The occasional youtube clip. I like it like that. Virtual reality has provided me with that which I have always craved- an escape route. A way to simultaneously exist and not. I am Schrodinger’s Girl.
And he is Schrodinger’s Boy. This creature, who visited you, in my dream, whose flesh you have both consumed and not. Who you have both loved, and not. Who you know simultaneously exists, has existed, will always exist in your heart, and also never did.
I walk over to the computer. I click and the page appears. I look. Does it matter what I see? My dream tells me it does not. The boy, whose face I can just make out, still, from the memory of my dream, agrees. He smiles. Then disappears.