Been in my dome for seventy-two hours. My first beer and conversation just now lending forces to push/pull/strain me into a reality where others' sorrows are involved. And philosophies. And joys. And lies I could only believe if I were staring at my own ceiling. Patiently waiting for one of my friends to say something intriguing. Something to get me to smile at the 7-11 clerk.
Instead, we're passing around pictures from "Q's" last life. A life where he would allow a hornets' nest to not only be built by those violent fucks, but let a hive maintain a semi-permanent residence in the far corner of his living room is highly comical. If a little sad. But, now he is standing. Wrapped up towels for armor. A can of Raid in one glenched fist, the other grasping a spatula with honor. Yep, Looks like he and his boy finally got up off their smacked-out asses and put their war face on.
Despite my friends celluloid memories and a decent buzz, she, of course, draws me back. To a smile and an empty sunset we coulda been, if it were not for all the mistrust reflecting through our best intentions.
"But dude, I swear we were communicating. In the dream, vocally talking like for a moment we were on the same trip. She was whispering of gentle embraces and candy cliche flower type shit."
"Vocally talking? Your lame." His only reply.
"Um," I pause politely to allow his witty banter to linger in the stale air, "Either way, we went to this concert in the desert and it was our "new beginning" and we even took her dad's pick-up truck, which meant her dad liked me. She was about to give me the best roadhead of our relationship but then I woke up.
They're laughing at me now. They're assholes like that.
"Dude," Q again, "Yo you know your dream doesn't make any sense?"
"No, I'm telling you your ex-girlfriend is so far, long gone that there's no way in hell she is dreaming about you."