Dreams, girls and dreamy girls
Part I: The dream
The supermarket flickered its lights on. The floor and ceiling turned white and oppressively bright. An electric hum pulsed in my eardrums, massaging my mind into a state of relaxation. As if my brain had been clenched like a bicep all this time and could finally let go.
Around me, the aisles stretched endlessly. There seemed to be more categories than actual products. The infinite horizon of comings and goings reflected in my eyes, blurring at the edges while holding a fixed point—empty yet full—in my pupils: the home goods aisle. A woman, roughly my mother’s age, paused to inspect a stack of thin mattresses piled vertically. Abandoned under a sale sign, they reminded me of the unread bookshelf looming over my desk.
Shoppers began to surround me like creatures sprouting from damp soil after rain, browsing the aisles. The woman joined the hive of people, unintentionally leaving the last mattress in the pile misaligned.
Oh.
Their fall felt imminent, and realizing this snapped away the fog from my vision, sharpening my worry. I started walking, first frustrated by the woman’s carelessness, then frustrated that I cared enough to fix it. Did no one else see the importance of these trivial things? Or was it that I overcared about life’s minutiae more than anyone else? The answer seemed to be different depending on the day and hour. My girlfriend would probably know which one was true, based on my enneagram.
Before recalling if I was a Nine or a One, the absurd—and obvious—happened. Like the Lernaean monster, every time I adjusted one mattress, two others lost balance. But today, I wouldn’t be Hercules—I’d be Atlas. In an instant, I became the sole pillar holding up Section 18 of thin mattresses nobody wanted to buy.
Another woman appeared. Different from the first. Different from everyone else in the supermarket, who blurred into shadows as the lights shifted from sterile white to warm rays tenderly framing her brown hair. Large hazel eyes, lined in earthy tones that contrasted her skin, gazed up at me with playful mockery. Her gaze, more alive and somehow sadder than anyone around her, stirred a strange emotion in me.
Of course, that emotion was quickly crushed by the weight of Section 18’s unwanted thin mattresses. The brunette, instead of helping, began reciting a mental shopping list of hams she wanted to buy: glazed, smoked, Iberian…
I begged her to help me, offering to carry as many charcuterie legs as she desired in return. With a smile and a decisive arm movement, she shoved away all the mattresses at once, and they straightened as if ordered to stand elegantly for their new governess’s inspection.
Freed from the threat of societal collapse (of thin mattresses), I finally looked at her calmly. When our eyes met, I knew she’d be a beautiful problem in my life. I didn’t know her, but she felt thrilling in delirious ways that only exist when you meet someone you want to ask out. A fiery flood of emotions rushed into my mind, and I remembered carefree college afternoons playing will-they-won’t-they with crushes who were likely more real in my head.1
Then everything zoomed in. A thought crystallized, tacked to my brain: I already have a girlfriend, and she’s the love of my life. I want to marry her. Have a family. A future. I SHOULDN’T BE THINKING THIS.
But then my eyes relaxed again. The brunette and I chatted more as we navigated the endless supermarket aisles toward the deli. I noticed her aurburn-brown hair was fake—black roots peeking through her French bob. She wore a marinière top, ripped jeans, and makeup that accentuated features other women might hide. My inexperience couldn’t tell if her faint brown freckles were real or calculated additions.
In a moment, I realized we could talk as if we’d known each other since the start of our lives.
No—as if we’d existed since the start of everything.
The mead of her presence intoxicated me. I tried to think of my girlfriend, but got lost in the brunette’s laugh. I’d grasp for the guilt to come into me, only to marvel at her freckles. I’d focus on my future marriage, and she’d hum a fucking Smiths song, her nose piercing glinting. I could not resist her.
We exchanged numbers, and she gave me a name I assumed was fake. I didn’t care. Incriminating thoughts tried to surface. I didn’t care about those either.
What would I do with this? My instinct said run. My heart demanded uncontrollably to see her again. A lie bloomed between the two, calming both sides: We’d just be friends.
Days, weeks, or months later, we met at a restaurant with black walls, high ceilings, and warm lighting. Across from me sat the brunette, smiling in a way that crinkled her eyelids, wearing natural makeup and a dress neither casual nor red-carpet. She carried a small gift box she hadn’t bothered to hide.
She didn’t know I had a girlfriend—I had lied by omission. My girlfriend knew I’d made a “new friend,” but I’d skipped the part about how this woman sparked my soul each time we met.
Her eyes, brimming with enthusiasm, reminded me of my sins. It was clear: Tonight was the night the brunette would confess she wanted more than friendship. Without words, I understood she had wished for this under a shooting star. She truly loved me—God knows why. But destiny didn't have a shooting start for me. It was more like an extinction-level meteorite, and it walked toward our table in stilettos.
I stood up as my girlfriend stopped to greet me. She wasn’t angry—she had no clue. I kissed her cheek and, feeling wormlike, made introductions.
— Hi, love — I said, playing dumb — Didn’t expect to see you here. Are you…? (I pointed to a back table)
— Yeah, meeting V. — my girlfriend said — Who’s this?
— She’s… the friend I told you about.
As we spoke, the brunette stared ahead. Her eyes glazed, disbelieving the betrayal. For a moment, her lips twitched—like a stifled sneeze—as tears pooled. She forced composure. Locking eyes with me, she said:
— Yeah. I'm the friend. Sorry-I-have-to-go (!)
She leapt up, dropping the white napkin from her lap. She left swiftly, avoiding a scene. As she exited, I watched her wipe her eyes and hug herself, trembling yet gentle. I stared until she crossed the door. She never looked back.
My girlfriend, infinitely perceptive, sat down and leveled a gaze soft as a razor, expecting an explanation.
I told her what I’ve told you, dear reader. She listened calmly, eyebrows twitching as I spoke. I said I didn’t know why I’d done it, didn’t know how it spiraled, hadn’t meant to lead her on. Half-truths. Incomplete lies. I was the one who’d wanted to be led. She understood. There was no infidelity, but there was intent.
When my words finally dissolved into silence, my girlfriend picked up the brunette’s gift from the leather booth. She set it on the table and, silent tears streaking her makeup, left the restaurant.
On the white tablecloth, only I remained—with my tears, other fluids, and the small gift. I opened it to find a tiny ornate pastry. Beside it, a pencil sketch of a hummingbird. On the back of the paper, a note with hearts explained how the fake name she’d given me at the supermarket was an anagram of her real name: It was...
And then I woke up.