In my dream, I had such a lovely house. Very 80s style, modern. The door was on the south side, and there was a wall of windows there. Next to the door was a table with my computer and keyboard on it, and chairs on either side. There was a large living room with a brick floor and at least three bedrooms.
I was at home after having gone out to a club and running into a friend I had only met on the Internet, K. When we saw each other, something clicked. It was as if we had known each other for decades. That term "on the same wavelength" ? That describes every moment of every interaction we had. What an amazing person! We talked through the evening, then at the end of the night, K. came to my home, accompanied by his bartender girlfriend with long, straight, brown hair, who was wearing a purple corset and had a name that wasn't a name. Petrichor. The three of us hung out, played music, talked throughout the night. It was a shimmering, shining time.
A. came home briefly and joined us in our revelry. The four of us seemed like we had been friends forever. Then he had to go back to the lab. Petrichor also had to leave, so they left together.
K. and I started talking then about writing music. We had discussed collaborating on a piece earlier, and put on some old songs for inspiration; songs from the sixties. At one point, he got up to dance and motioned for me to join him. We danced in such joy, as if it were the sixties and today all at the same time, and the only thing that existed was this dance and the music of the spheres. It was as if we lived in a Madeleine L'Engle novel, and this was my life. It was a gesture of simple and pure friendship with no overtones, no ulterior motives; something that does not exist outside of books. I stepped back, looking at this Friend with amazing hair and broad shoulders and told him, not I love you, but We should get to work. For that is, indeed, what love is - endless and tireless work to leave the world a better place than we found it.
We sat down at the table by the door and began to write. The song we sang was one I wrote back in college - "Don't walk into that place/Into the shadow of a newly-familiar face/I never wanted to live this way/Or it had never crossed my mind before." He strummed a guitar; I switched between the keyboard and the computer. At this point, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to see a very cute and feisty red-haired girl, who introduced herself as K's girlfriend, and walked in. I was confused; wasn't Petrichor K's girlfriend? But I had the good sense not to say anything, and over the course of the next few minutes it became apparent that this curly-haired sprite was, indeed, K's actual girlfriend, and that she didn't know anyone named Petrichor. How could this absolutely wonderful person, or someone who seemed wonderful to me, be seeing two girls at once who didn't know about each other...? People's lives are complicated, I suppose. No one is all good; no one is all bad. Perhaps, later, privately, I would ask him. But maybe it's not any of my business.
She decided she would stay the night. I was tired, so I showed them to a guest room on the northwest side of the house, decorated in ivory and flower petals, and went to rest in my own lilac-colored room. A. comes home to join me. I tell him we have guests, and we drift off to sleep.
In the morning, we all wake up and watch cartoons together. I cook breakfast and the atmosphere is bubbling over with the joy of crepes and mimosas and exuberant conversation. To be honest, I liked Petrichor better, but this girl, whose name I never quite caught, is as bubbly as the mimosas. She also reveals that K's amazing hair is actually a very high-tech wig, and he is very nearly bald! I react with a smile, but inside I'm secretly proud of A's full head of thick, natural hair.
As it approaches noon, K. says they must be leaving. I hug each in turn and they depart. I know it is highly unlikely that I shall ever have such a soiree again, but I hope for a knock on my door the following evening...
Later, alone, I turn on the TV and there's a show on about the bar where Petrichor worked. The bartender speaking on the screen is named Petrichor and she's wearing a purple corset - but she's a petite blonde. Cut to a shot taken the next day, where a six-foot tall man in a purple corset is manning the bar, and the patrons call him Petrichor as well. The regulars treated them all as the same person, asking them questions about events that happened the night before, when a different Petrichor was on duty, and getting answers as if they were there. Who was the real Petrichor? Was there a Petrichor at all? And who, indeed, was the beautiful brunette who had come to my home the night before?
I was at home after having gone out to a club and running into a friend I had only met on the Internet, K. When we saw each other, something clicked. It was as if we had known each other for decades. That term "on the same wavelength" ? That describes every moment of every interaction we had. What an amazing person! We talked through the evening, then at the end of the night, K. came to my home, accompanied by his bartender girlfriend with long, straight, brown hair, who was wearing a purple corset and had a name that wasn't a name. Petrichor. The three of us hung out, played music, talked throughout the night. It was a shimmering, shining time.
A. came home briefly and joined us in our revelry. The four of us seemed like we had been friends forever. Then he had to go back to the lab. Petrichor also had to leave, so they left together.
K. and I started talking then about writing music. We had discussed collaborating on a piece earlier, and put on some old songs for inspiration; songs from the sixties. At one point, he got up to dance and motioned for me to join him. We danced in such joy, as if it were the sixties and today all at the same time, and the only thing that existed was this dance and the music of the spheres. It was as if we lived in a Madeleine L'Engle novel, and this was my life. It was a gesture of simple and pure friendship with no overtones, no ulterior motives; something that does not exist outside of books. I stepped back, looking at this Friend with amazing hair and broad shoulders and told him, not I love you, but We should get to work. For that is, indeed, what love is - endless and tireless work to leave the world a better place than we found it.
We sat down at the table by the door and began to write. The song we sang was one I wrote back in college - "Don't walk into that place/Into the shadow of a newly-familiar face/I never wanted to live this way/Or it had never crossed my mind before." He strummed a guitar; I switched between the keyboard and the computer. At this point, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to see a very cute and feisty red-haired girl, who introduced herself as K's girlfriend, and walked in. I was confused; wasn't Petrichor K's girlfriend? But I had the good sense not to say anything, and over the course of the next few minutes it became apparent that this curly-haired sprite was, indeed, K's actual girlfriend, and that she didn't know anyone named Petrichor. How could this absolutely wonderful person, or someone who seemed wonderful to me, be seeing two girls at once who didn't know about each other...? People's lives are complicated, I suppose. No one is all good; no one is all bad. Perhaps, later, privately, I would ask him. But maybe it's not any of my business.
She decided she would stay the night. I was tired, so I showed them to a guest room on the northwest side of the house, decorated in ivory and flower petals, and went to rest in my own lilac-colored room. A. comes home to join me. I tell him we have guests, and we drift off to sleep.
In the morning, we all wake up and watch cartoons together. I cook breakfast and the atmosphere is bubbling over with the joy of crepes and mimosas and exuberant conversation. To be honest, I liked Petrichor better, but this girl, whose name I never quite caught, is as bubbly as the mimosas. She also reveals that K's amazing hair is actually a very high-tech wig, and he is very nearly bald! I react with a smile, but inside I'm secretly proud of A's full head of thick, natural hair.
As it approaches noon, K. says they must be leaving. I hug each in turn and they depart. I know it is highly unlikely that I shall ever have such a soiree again, but I hope for a knock on my door the following evening...
Later, alone, I turn on the TV and there's a show on about the bar where Petrichor worked. The bartender speaking on the screen is named Petrichor and she's wearing a purple corset - but she's a petite blonde. Cut to a shot taken the next day, where a six-foot tall man in a purple corset is manning the bar, and the patrons call him Petrichor as well. The regulars treated them all as the same person, asking them questions about events that happened the night before, when a different Petrichor was on duty, and getting answers as if they were there. Who was the real Petrichor? Was there a Petrichor at all? And who, indeed, was the beautiful brunette who had come to my home the night before?
