what a beautiful dream

Memory is a privilege. Outside of my bedroom window, I see the colours of sunset. The dark blue and how it fades into a seafoam colour, before turning light yellow and bright orange. It’s windier than usual, and I take this opportunity to cleanse the space, to cleanse the apartment. My roommate pours us a glass of rosé, and we cheers to being roommates for the short-lived summer.

—

In the morning, I walk to the coffee shop beside me. I’m not as much of a regular here, but the barista did remember when I lost my keys on my birthday, and found them in a rain puddle outside the door. He knows I take my coffee black, and when payday hits every second Friday, I will always treat myself to a pain au chocolat. I order my coffee, thank him, and eye the pastries before heading out. Payday can’t come soon enough.

Rain was in today’s forecast, but it ended up being sunny and clear. My friend texts to tell me that the universe knows I have a day off, so my mom must have done something to hold back the rain. I tell her it’s supposed to be clear skies for the rest of the week, so she must be telling me to go live out there.

I text another one of my friends to see if she’s around.

“Walking by our old apartment! You free for a walk?”

“Yes! Give me 20.”

I sit in the park across from my old building. I didn’t move very far, which also made me laugh because I felt like it was the universe telling me something, again.

My dreams have been lighter, lately. I keep dreaming that Jesse and I are back together, except in the dreams, I don’t think that it’s him.

In Sunday’s dream, we’re in a dark room, and I’m situated in between one of his friends, and my first boyfriend’s little sister. He’s on the phone and tells whoever is on the other end that we’re back together, we’re throwing a party to celebrate, and it’s the first of many parties. I look to his friend beside me and ask if I’m getting engaged, because that’s what it feels like. The friend sits there with a smirk, and my first boyfriend’s little sister asks if I need to borrow an outfit.

Then, we then go upstairs, and I am in my childhood home. My mom and dad are decorating the home in white glitter. The walls sparkle from the ceiling to the floor. There’s a snow globe on the table. I tell Jesse the house looks beautiful, and he looks at me and says, “The house has always been beautiful.” There’s a bar cart holding a tray with wine glasses and champagne, and one wine glass that’s rose colored has tipped over, fallen, and broken. But the rest stand straight up.

Jesse shrugs. “We’ll just call the guy to get us new ones.”

Maybe the dream represented my eternal optimism. The sparkle lists from the winter that helped to heal me. The rose colored glasses that can break, but can also easily be repaired and replaced. There was a celebratory feeling to the dream, but also a sense of safety. I felt calm beside him, I felt stable. He felt stable.

My friend and I do our usual routine. We walk through the park, past the bar where we were regulars at, and past Jesse’s old apartment.

“Where’d he move?” My spiritual healer asked me a few weeks ago.

“He bought a house in the same area, essentially.”

“Hm.” She replies. “That’s…interesting.”

But there’s a freedom to him not being directly here, not directly beside me. My stomach doesn’t drop at the sight of his balcony, my heart doesn’t race. I don’t brace myself for impact.

Instead, I walk. I breathe. I carry on. My friend and I walk around the grocery store, picking out fresh produce for the recipe she’s making tonight. There’s a jalepeño, a bright yellow pepper, and so much other bright coloured produce in her basket. I get excited when I see my favorite brand of pasta on sale.

“It’s my new favourite.” She tells me.

“Ugh. I love making people BioItalia converts!”

We get to the wine section, and she offers to pick me up a can of sparkling red sangria.

“Girl.” I put an appreciative hand over my heart. “You understand. It’s me being able to make $1.28 last until payday.”

She laughs. “It’s seriously no problem.”

We go to the cashier to check out. My friend pops the can of sangria into my tote.

We walk out of the grocery store and go back down our usual route.

“You know - I was thinking about Jesse’s apartment. And how it must have felt like - a landing point for you two.”

“Exactly.” I nod. “You know me - I’ve bopped around everywhere. He had been to an Airbnb I was staying at - maybe once, and my old apartment - maybe twice. But I had been going to that same apartment since I was 26 years old. That’s a long time.”

There’s empathy in her nod. “That’s a really long time. It was almost like a container.”

“Totally. And I think the apartment always made it feel - more real. The whole relationship always felt like a fever dream. It was so intense and passionate and quick to start, and then - just as quick to end. But that apartment - it held on to everything, you know?”

And I think of our fights, and I think of what those walls saw. I think they saw a girl who was desperately trying to hold on to something she thought was going to give her some semblance of stability. And when she didn’t feel like she was getting it, she bit. Her words were venom, and she knew exactly what to say and she knew exactly how it was going to make him feel. Because she wanted him to feel her pain. The pain of not having somewhere safe to fall into, or not feeling like she deserved to have somewhere safe to fall into. Maybe if he knew how much he was hurting her, he could be the one to make it stop, too.

So, yes, he was right on that Yorkville night. Yes, he had major communication issues. But he had his finger right in the wound. The wound, not created by him. But irritated by him.

“It’s interesting, though. When I think about everything. And I look back, and see how I was acting from a place of instability. I looked at the guys I was attracting - like Stefan and Trevor. Not that they were necessarily bad, but they were also all over the place - in their own way. And I think, whoever I meet now, or whoever I meet next, they’re going to meet someone who feels more…rooted. I’m not trying to be anywhere else but here. And I think that’s the healthiest place to meet someone at.”

“Emily.” She pauses and smiles. “Absolutely.”

—

Dear Jesse,

I told my therapist that I think to be loved is to be seen. For better or for worse. She asked me why I loved you, and I said - “Because he sees me. The good and the bad. And he loves me for it. For all of it.”

She told me she agrees. She alluded to the vows two people make in a marriage contract. “For better or for worse. In sickness and in health.” She then said, “And I think you got that with him, Emily. I do. But I don’t think you got that with him all of the time.”

Jesse, I used to think that love was enough. That love would be enough, for any and all causes. But it’s not. And I wish it was. I wish I could snap my fingers, back when I was 24 and it was winter and we first laid in bed together in my apartment. The first time with someone you like is always awkward. I am always in my head because I want them to think that I am perfect and beautiful and all of the best things, meanwhile - all I can think of is how my body looks and if this angle is better for them or if I shaved or waxed or if they can they tell if I’ve missed a spot.

We held on to each other for a while in the dark. And it was quiet until you said, “I like you. But like…in a more than just friends type of way.”

I smiled and told you that I liked you, too. “Also in a more than just friends type of way.”

You were relieved. Then you asked, “So you’re not going to ghost me then?”

“No.” I replied. “Are you going to ghost me?”

You quickly shook your head no, and reminded me that we had a date the following Tuesday. You were taking me to the hockey game. I bought a new outfit. And it was the best date that I had ever been on. I knew nothing about hockey. And you didn’t even bother explaining anything to me. You were just happy to have me there. And I was just happy to be there, next to you.

I felt lucky. I stopped caring about angles, or if I missed a spot shaving. Because I knew you didn’t care. You just wanted me.

Jesse, I am 33 now. You were 28, and now you are 37. And in these 9 years, so much has changed.

I lost a parent. You lost your best friend. I moved across the world. You stayed here. I built something that resembles a starving artist’s lifestyle. You built something material. But no matter how much time has passed, it will always feel like the first time.

In the last dream I had of you, you are picking me up from a friend’s house. I jump into your arms and wrap my legs around your waist. Then, you disappear. Snow keeps falling and it’s piling up and I can hear your voice but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. A group of violets appear on top of a snowbank, and so I brush them away and start digging underneath the snow, and there you are. You’re still talking to me, and I’m trying with all of my might to pull you out from under.

Then, I wake up.