Him: I had this dream about her the other night. You know, the kind you hope to God is real when you wake up. We were sitting at the top of this ferris wheel. The Coney Island kind. Old and creaky with half of the bulbs burned out. But all I could see was this mess of dark curls next to me, surrounded by all these flashing yellow lights. The muted kind where the lights are starting to die.

And there it was, catching in her hair, making it almost red. And she was laughing. Or crying. I could never see her face, just this mess of hair that fell into her laughing or crying, shaking cleavage. And she was wearing a dress, white enough to reflect all of the lights. No, absorbing all of the lights. She was this glowing, shaking, mess of hair. And we were above everything. Above the city, above the ocean, above all the ant people on the boardwalk. Just us, shaking in this rickety ferris wheel. And she would drum her fingers on the safety bar, the way she does when she’s thinking deeply. And all I could think was that I wanted to grab one of those shaking curls, to coil it around my finger, and use it to keep her with me, to keep her near me and never ever let go.

And then I woke up, with my fingers pressed into the skin of my ever faithful and loving girlfriend, whose face I could see clearly, every eyelash, every freckle, the little scar on her chin from falling off her bike when she was seven. But I didn’t feel much. Don’t get me wrong, I care very much. Years of sharing a bed and a life with a person will do that to you.  But I’ve never, in our time together, felt that carnal need to grab on to her and make her stay.

You’re asking, will I do it? Leave this person who shares my everyday life? For the mystery girl of my dreams? No, I’ll leave my love on that ferris wheel. Maybe next time she’ll tell me what it was that made her shake so beautifully.