8 Minutes

It’s a funny thing. I’ve got these friends, right? And we all love each other without saying we love each other. We love each other like boa constrictors love a rat. We love each other like rose vines love an ankle. We love each other meanly, with a little too much teeth, scraping the bone because we don’t want to waste fresh meat.

And I’ve got this dream, recurring-like. Damn thing won’t leave me alone. And in the dream, I’m there, and so are all the rest — Milo and Joey and Hannes and Will. And we aren’t mean with each other at all. We treat each other real gentle, like you treat a baby or a stray dog. Coaxing, maybe, scared to press too hard. Holding, cradling us like eggshells, afraid we might just break apart. And dream-me really eats it up, all that softness. Like I’m starving for it. Like maybe I want to be held in the cup of someone’s hand.

When I wake up, sometimes — only sometimes, only when I’m still too sleep-drugged to remember — I forget that the dream love isn’t real. I just roll over and lay my skin against theirs — not hitting, not like usual, just enough to feel the warmth. And when they dig their teeth in my exposed belly, I’m not expecting it, so it hurts even worse.

Funny, right? Who cries over a dream because it’s too nice? I don’t cry over anything, not since my ma — and I don’t talk about it, either. What good’s talking gonna do? Same with crying…