"Perhaps it's true what they say, and people do meet in dreams." He said. "I know because I saw you in mine."
And he had.
They'd met in Paris. But it was a cleaner, more abstract Paris. They were sitting outside a coffee shop together—his eyes fixed on her, her eyes fixed on the swirling clouds above. The clouds looked like a Monet painting: messy strokes of different whites and purples blended together, swimming through a periwinkle sky. She was wearing a blue and white gingham dress he'd never seen before. She looked lovely. A floppy, straw hat crowned her gossamer hair, with a white ribbon around its brim. She was the same—her smile, her eyes, her laugh could not be more beautiful, even in the realm of impossible dreams. She was perfect. He smiled. He'd always thought she was perfect.
One blink, and they were standing under the Eiffel Tower. It swayed with each warm gust of wind like a helpless leaf in an autumn breeze. Then, they were standing on the tip of the tower—hand in hand. She jumped and took him with her. The fall wasn't scary...it was gentle. Slow. They landed in a field of tulips. They were no longer in Paris.
"It was wonderful seeing you there," he said. "I never believed you."
And he hadn't.
Elise smiled and laughed when she told him about it for the first time, while they sat in the park. "My sisters and I used to meet in dreams all the time," she insisted. "We rode a bus together."
"Where did you go?"
"That was the destination. It was the bus, that's all."
"Poetic. Deep." He chuckled.
"I'll find you, you know." She nudged him before grabbing his hand. "You'd better wear your best suit to bed. We'll go dancing."
He was quite smug when he reported the next morning that he did not see her in his dreams. In fact, he never dreamt a thing. He didn't think he would, either, so he slept in his pajamas.
"I can't remember faces. I must have danced with someone else," she replied airily. "Though I would rather have danced with you."
"Then let's dance in real life," he laughed. "We'll dance right now."
He stood and extended his hand to her. With a sigh and an "exasperated" smile, she let him spin her around the living room before he kissed her.
"Next time, we'll dance in the stars," she poked him. "So, wear your most dazzling tux."
But he didn't see her that night either.
"You know what?" He said to her, now, handing her the flowers he'd bought that morning from her favorite flower shop. The one on East Main. "We should try to see each other again tonight." He thought for a moment. "We should travel in time. What do you say? The wild west sounds appealing, doesn't it?"
He thought about the endless possibilities, of places they could go where they could never dream of going in reality. Time travel alone opened up so many. He could be a duke, and she could be a lady in a castle wearing a frivolous gown and a ridiculous wig. They could waltz under a crystal chandelier all night long to Johann Strauss II's "Roses from the South." She'd wear satin gloves, too, and he'd wear tailcoats, like the characters in her favorite movies. She'd speak to him in some affected accent—no, sing to him. It was more fun that way.
Or they could take a rocket to Pluto, where they'd get so desperately cold before meeting a friendly group of aliens who'd take them in and teach them their native tongue. They'd have fourteen eyes and three mouths, and he could imagine himself getting lost trying to figure out which eye to look at while Elise spoke to them sweetly and enchanted them with her smiles. Maybe the aliens could hover just above the ground while they walked, and their language would sound like distorted fifties music. Why not? Anything could happen there.
They could be Hollywood film stars on the red carpet, with Elise's wonderful dark hair delicately curled and trailing down her back while she stunned onlookers in an emerald green dress. He, himself, would have a perfectly sophisticated mustache that wiggled when he smiled and had only a few streaks of gray—all the classy Hollywood stars grayed early, if they knew what was good for them. Clark Gable would be his inspiration. They'd walk up the carpet, arm in arm, and smile at one another, forgetting the flashing cameras and crowding fans beside them.
They could get married, like they were supposed to ten years ago. But it would be fancier, whiter, and more romantic than reality could allow. Butterflies would carry her train, and his father would officiate. And he, the groom, would wear his most dazzling tux. Crystallized dewdrops would decorate Elise's hair, which flew gently behind her. Her veil would hold itself up as it fluttered through the air. It would snow, but they wouldn't be cold. They'd say their vows while floating out to sea on an iceberg, with bioluminescent jellyfish slowly guiding them to an island set aside just for them to live out their days. Their rings would be made of stardust, twinkling endlessly, declaring their love to the entire universe.
"You were right about dreams," he whispered. "You've been right about everything." He could hear her chuckle. "Meet me again tonight, okay? Let's decide on Florence, and do the Wild West another time. You've always wanted to see the Sistine Chapel. We'll meet there, and we'll see everything. We've got hours. Okay?" He stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. "I'll be the one in the blue suit—bright blue. I'll look absurd, but you can't miss me that way. No need to tell me what you'll be wearing. I couldn't miss you from miles away. Even if I tried." He knelt down. "I'll see you tonight. Don't be late."
He kissed her headstone and rested his forehead on it for a lingering moment, as tears fell from his face and caressed the petals of the newly purchased flowers resting on the earth below. The tears winked and sparkled for a moment in the light of the sun, before they sank into the grass. Twinkling like stardust.
And he had.
They'd met in Paris. But it was a cleaner, more abstract Paris. They were sitting outside a coffee shop together—his eyes fixed on her, her eyes fixed on the swirling clouds above. The clouds looked like a Monet painting: messy strokes of different whites and purples blended together, swimming through a periwinkle sky. She was wearing a blue and white gingham dress he'd never seen before. She looked lovely. A floppy, straw hat crowned her gossamer hair, with a white ribbon around its brim. She was the same—her smile, her eyes, her laugh could not be more beautiful, even in the realm of impossible dreams. She was perfect. He smiled. He'd always thought she was perfect.
One blink, and they were standing under the Eiffel Tower. It swayed with each warm gust of wind like a helpless leaf in an autumn breeze. Then, they were standing on the tip of the tower—hand in hand. She jumped and took him with her. The fall wasn't scary...it was gentle. Slow. They landed in a field of tulips. They were no longer in Paris.
"It was wonderful seeing you there," he said. "I never believed you."
And he hadn't.
Elise smiled and laughed when she told him about it for the first time, while they sat in the park. "My sisters and I used to meet in dreams all the time," she insisted. "We rode a bus together."
"Where did you go?"
"That was the destination. It was the bus, that's all."
"Poetic. Deep." He chuckled.
"I'll find you, you know." She nudged him before grabbing his hand. "You'd better wear your best suit to bed. We'll go dancing."
He was quite smug when he reported the next morning that he did not see her in his dreams. In fact, he never dreamt a thing. He didn't think he would, either, so he slept in his pajamas.
"I can't remember faces. I must have danced with someone else," she replied airily. "Though I would rather have danced with you."
"Then let's dance in real life," he laughed. "We'll dance right now."
He stood and extended his hand to her. With a sigh and an "exasperated" smile, she let him spin her around the living room before he kissed her.
"Next time, we'll dance in the stars," she poked him. "So, wear your most dazzling tux."
But he didn't see her that night either.
"You know what?" He said to her, now, handing her the flowers he'd bought that morning from her favorite flower shop. The one on East Main. "We should try to see each other again tonight." He thought for a moment. "We should travel in time. What do you say? The wild west sounds appealing, doesn't it?"
He thought about the endless possibilities, of places they could go where they could never dream of going in reality. Time travel alone opened up so many. He could be a duke, and she could be a lady in a castle wearing a frivolous gown and a ridiculous wig. They could waltz under a crystal chandelier all night long to Johann Strauss II's "Roses from the South." She'd wear satin gloves, too, and he'd wear tailcoats, like the characters in her favorite movies. She'd speak to him in some affected accent—no, sing to him. It was more fun that way.
Or they could take a rocket to Pluto, where they'd get so desperately cold before meeting a friendly group of aliens who'd take them in and teach them their native tongue. They'd have fourteen eyes and three mouths, and he could imagine himself getting lost trying to figure out which eye to look at while Elise spoke to them sweetly and enchanted them with her smiles. Maybe the aliens could hover just above the ground while they walked, and their language would sound like distorted fifties music. Why not? Anything could happen there.
They could be Hollywood film stars on the red carpet, with Elise's wonderful dark hair delicately curled and trailing down her back while she stunned onlookers in an emerald green dress. He, himself, would have a perfectly sophisticated mustache that wiggled when he smiled and had only a few streaks of gray—all the classy Hollywood stars grayed early, if they knew what was good for them. Clark Gable would be his inspiration. They'd walk up the carpet, arm in arm, and smile at one another, forgetting the flashing cameras and crowding fans beside them.
They could get married, like they were supposed to ten years ago. But it would be fancier, whiter, and more romantic than reality could allow. Butterflies would carry her train, and his father would officiate. And he, the groom, would wear his most dazzling tux. Crystallized dewdrops would decorate Elise's hair, which flew gently behind her. Her veil would hold itself up as it fluttered through the air. It would snow, but they wouldn't be cold. They'd say their vows while floating out to sea on an iceberg, with bioluminescent jellyfish slowly guiding them to an island set aside just for them to live out their days. Their rings would be made of stardust, twinkling endlessly, declaring their love to the entire universe.
"You were right about dreams," he whispered. "You've been right about everything." He could hear her chuckle. "Meet me again tonight, okay? Let's decide on Florence, and do the Wild West another time. You've always wanted to see the Sistine Chapel. We'll meet there, and we'll see everything. We've got hours. Okay?" He stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. "I'll be the one in the blue suit—bright blue. I'll look absurd, but you can't miss me that way. No need to tell me what you'll be wearing. I couldn't miss you from miles away. Even if I tried." He knelt down. "I'll see you tonight. Don't be late."
He kissed her headstone and rested his forehead on it for a lingering moment, as tears fell from his face and caressed the petals of the newly purchased flowers resting on the earth below. The tears winked and sparkled for a moment in the light of the sun, before they sank into the grass. Twinkling like stardust.