Last night I had one of those dreams about being in love.
When I was younger I used to have them about piles of pound coins, huge mountains of them that I would discover behind the sofa and run my hands through greedily. Now I have them about men.
The man in question is normally someone I have never met before, never seen before (although it was recently Peter Jones from Dragons Den), but I always just KNOW. He is The One.
Sometimes we are on our own, sometimes we are with a group of friends. They are not normally sexual, and sometimes we don’t even speak, but I just know. There is a feeling between us, a connection, like our minds are meeting in a space somewhere between our bodies. I feel like I’m living in his head, when really he is living in mine.
I am not easily fooled by dreams. Whenever something seems too good to be true I usually question myself and realise I am dreaming. My sub-sub-conscious is terribly manipulative though. “Look at your hands,” it whispers to me, “look at his hands. Touch him. He feels real doesn’t he?”
I do, and he does. For those few minutes, months, years in my dream he is real and I love him.
And then I wake up.
It’s not real anymore.
I close my eyes, but I can’t see him. Come back! I call silently.
For a second I am heartbroken. He was The One, and now I will never see him again. I try to picture him – his brown eyes, his…what colour was his hair? His face is fuzzy, a blur… what was his name?
And then he’s gone.