We’re in a meadow: the sun is out; there aren’t any clouds, and the humidity is nonexistent. A gentle breeze crosses through the field. It smells like shampoo. I’m dreaming. She sits in the grass, leaning back on her arms. Her hair hangs from her scalp to her mid back and she looks up at me with her dark brown eyes, her soft eyelashes batting with every look she makes.
“David, I need help with this math problem.” I blink, and there’s a math book in her lap. We’re in a library, not a meadow, she’s sitting in one of the gross chairs and I’m sitting across from her. I take the book from her lap, but the problem’s incoherent and written in glyphs and signals. “Please” she pouts. I shake my head and try to read it again. It doesn’t work. I blink again, but this time I wake up.
Serena Ferrara and I broke up six months ago and I’m still dreaming of her. My pillows still smell like her shampoo, despite the numerous washes. My apartment’s an ugly shadow of our past relationship, her socks are still littering my dressers and kitchen and living room. We dated for nearly three years, from freshman year until the summer before senior year, and now, it’s November. I need to be done with her. I need to move on.
My cell phone’s been blaring since I woke up, and finally now, I notice it. My eyes skirt to the clock, it’s six in the morning. Who the hell is calling me? I reach to the phone; Christ, its Serena. She haunts me in my dreams and wakes me up from them remotely. I straighten as much as possible when you’re still under your covers and wearing nothing but boxer shorts.
“This is David Durham.” I answer, slurring over the syllables in my name. Perhaps she’ll think I deleted her number. Maybe she’s calling to finally take back all of her crap—I’m sick of seeing it. Maybe she’ll tell me that she was the one being stupid. It’s so early—or late for her, she’s probably drunk. The thought of her drunk and begging lightens the grip on my cell phone.
“David, I need help with this math problem.” I blink, and there’s a math book in her lap. We’re in a library, not a meadow, she’s sitting in one of the gross chairs and I’m sitting across from her. I take the book from her lap, but the problem’s incoherent and written in glyphs and signals. “Please” she pouts. I shake my head and try to read it again. It doesn’t work. I blink again, but this time I wake up.
Serena Ferrara and I broke up six months ago and I’m still dreaming of her. My pillows still smell like her shampoo, despite the numerous washes. My apartment’s an ugly shadow of our past relationship, her socks are still littering my dressers and kitchen and living room. We dated for nearly three years, from freshman year until the summer before senior year, and now, it’s November. I need to be done with her. I need to move on.
My cell phone’s been blaring since I woke up, and finally now, I notice it. My eyes skirt to the clock, it’s six in the morning. Who the hell is calling me? I reach to the phone; Christ, its Serena. She haunts me in my dreams and wakes me up from them remotely. I straighten as much as possible when you’re still under your covers and wearing nothing but boxer shorts.
“This is David Durham.” I answer, slurring over the syllables in my name. Perhaps she’ll think I deleted her number. Maybe she’s calling to finally take back all of her crap—I’m sick of seeing it. Maybe she’ll tell me that she was the one being stupid. It’s so early—or late for her, she’s probably drunk. The thought of her drunk and begging lightens the grip on my cell phone.
