sunbath dreams

sunbath dreams.

I dream about him sometimes.

Not sexual dreams, the kind that boys have, but weirdly normal dreams. Like in one dream, he was handing me a peanut butter sandwich that he made me for lunch because I was only eating granola bars and was avoiding the cafeteria. And there was one dream when he made me a delicious chicken salad that curbed both my satiation for a low calorie diet and a healthy meal. In return I made him a pasta dish that I looked up on Food Network, that he said “tasted decent.”

Strangely enough, a lot of my dreams with him involved food.

In one dream, I was taking a cake decorating class because his birthday was coming up and I wanted to bake him his favorite german chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting. And I wanted it to look like it was made by the most expensive bakery in Manhattan so I signed up for an impromptu cake decorating class led by a pastry chef who once appeared in a season of Top Chef: Just Desserts. A TV show that sadly was discontinued but is still good to watch on Hulu.

I made two cakes, one that I devoured immediately and then threw up in the bathroom after, and then another cake that I brought to Central Park where we had a picnic with mutual friends. And I got him a Macbook Pro that he coveted since the start of middle school when he discovered pornography. Less viruses, he said.

I asked him if he ever dreamed about me. At first he said he never did. But later, after having sex with him in one of the locked rooms in school, he admitted to me that he had a dream about us having sex in a church.

“Did you repent after?” I joked.

“A shit ton.” He answered.

This might be more of a dream than a memory, but I think we really did have sex in a church. A Catholic church, of all places. We were in fourth grade, and it was Easter Sunday, so I was wearing a Easter egg blue dress with printed flowers, and he was wearing a button down checkered shirt and slacks. His mom said we were the cutest kids to have walked as ushers and gave me a cupcake.

I liked his mom a lot. She cried more than me, which I liked because people always tell me I’m a crybaby. You’re kind of like me, I said one time I caught her crying in the women’s bathroom. I cry a lot too.

I asked her why she was crying, and she said she was missing someone.

I wondered who she was missing, but didn’t ask further.

Anyway, that Easter Sunday, we were racing down the stairs to get the last slice of fruit cake.

“Last one there gets cake bombed,” he yelled as he slid down the bannisters.

“I want the cake!” I yelled back but I was too slow and trailed after him.

I followed him, and he ran into a room but it wasn’t the room with the cake. He locked the door behind me and folded his arms.

“All right, you have some explaining to do,” he sternly lectured at me.

“What? Where’s the cake?” I pouted.

“Why are you wearing that dress and why are you wearing strawberry lip gloss and why is your hair like that."“

He pulled at my hair, which my mom had curled in waves.

“I wanted to look pretty! It’s Easter Sunday!”

I yanked my hair from him, turning my body away from him.

“Well, you’re not. Pretty, that is.” He looked away from me.

My eyes tearing up, I didn’t say anything.

I just sat down on the floor and sulked.

He paused for a moment, and sat down next to me. I looked away from him and held my knees to my chest.

We sit there for a couple of moments. Then he reached out and weaved his fingers through my hair.

Leaning over, he whispered in my ear,

“I lied. You’re pretty.”

And he wrapped his arms around me.

It felt nice. Like I was enveloped by a fleece blanket in the coldest of winters.

He was cold sometimes, but other times he was warm.

Like sunlight bathing me as we lied in the grass, after the Easter egg hunt.

Hey!

The memory fading, I turn back to the present.

He’s waving his hand over my face.

All right, you’re back to earth. I need your opinion on something.

He pulled out two pairs of sneakers. One was a pair of Adidas sneakers, black running shoes with white stripes, and the other was a pair of New balance sneakers, gray like bunny fur with pink laces.

Which pair should I give to my girlfriend?

I consider slapping him but decided against it.

The black ones. She’s on the track team.

All right.

He puts back the black ones in his backpack.

Handing me the New balance sneakers, he says

Here you go.

And he stands up and leaves.

I stare at the sneakers for a moment.

Are they even my size?

I say aloud to myself.

I hesitate but I put them on.

They fit perfectly.

I smile to myself and cross my arms around my knees, pulling them close to my chest.

Today, it’s sunny.