Dream

In the dream I was telling you about, I was startled by who was waiting for me at the table.  A blind date that revealed a person I knew.  He had bright, dark eyes in which a fire would last for a long time.  Eyes that you could keep warm by.  A small straggling goatee that might never catch up to his face.  Long eyelashes.  This way of holding his neck to the side, so that what he says he kind of tosses to you, apprehensively with a sense of danger tinging the words:  saying but apologizing.

But what I couldn't say, what at the moment absolutely shocked me out of the story and into a moment of what must have looked like dumb silence:  the dream took place where we were, the same small white tables dressed plainly, the same tiny chairs, the bare walls painted a faint yellow.

Maybe it's just a trick.  So much deja vu.  Like something I'd forgotten in the chimney that has been summoned back to use, the ember-grayed brick flickering back to life.  Put your hands in front of me.  Rub them together, gently.