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Wishful Thinking


He stared out his bedroom window, sighing. It was another long day without the girl of his dreams in his arms. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on without her, honestly. He wasn’t even sure if she existed. He wasn’t even sure who she was. Not yet. He just knew he hadn’t found her yet.

The stars glimmered, as usual, but the street lamp degraded the night sky’s beauty. That was also per usual. What was unusual was how warm it was that September evening. It had been an unusual summer and — now — the start of an unusual autumn.

It was the autumnal equinox, the day of equal light and equal darkness. A holiday, in his book. He wished the woman of his dreams was there to enjoy it with him, starting with a steamy night home alone. But, then again, since they’d never even said hello to each other, perhaps hand-holding was more appropriate to daydream about.

Everyone’s end goal is to get between the sheets. That much seemed like a given. What isn’t a given is how you get there, he thought to himself. He could rush it, but if she’s the woman of his dreams, perhaps it’d be better to draw it out so it was memorable… because it would be the last line of firsts. First date, first hand holding, first kiss, first make out session… first everything.

He ought to approach this like a virgin, he figured. How does a virgin do it? He couldn’t quite remember, other than a certain shyness that came from lack of certainty that he could do it all right. He guessed that’s what separated him today from the him of yesterday. No self-assuredness, no confidence. That’s where everyone begins, he thought.

Well, maybe not everyone. But everyone he had really had an in-depth conversation with about their firsts definitely mentioned that they were scared and nervous. In fact, he remembered one guy in college telling him he was so nervous that he threw up all over the girl’s shoes. Way to go, Ace, he’d said sarcastically to himself.

Thankfully, he never threw up on anyone’s shoes.

Yet, he was trying to attract the woman of his dreams. He’d been studying the Law of Attraction. The phrase “what you want wants you” rang through his head occasionally thanks to PowerThoughts Meditation Club, too. His favorite meditation had that in it. Maybe it was in several of them.

What was she doing this precise moment? He never could stop wondering what the woman of his dreams could be doing. Was she taking a luxurious bubble bath? Was she tucked away in bed already, trying to go to sleep for a brand new day? Was she putting together a puzzle on the kitchen table? Was she reading a book? Was she writing a book? What would she be doing?

He decided he liked the idea of her writing a book. It seemed like the most active and fulfilling action, though he supposed a bubble bath might be recharging, in general. In fact, he had that pesky feeling that his thoughts had turned into dictation yet again… he wondered if he googled his very thoughts if some sort of blog or diary would show up in the search engine. Still, it was very generic. Who could resist the temptation? How could it become less than generic?

Bubblegum witchcraft. That’s how.

“I’ve got you now, my pretty!”

Maybe.

If I’m lucky.

But what if I’m not lucky? What if I’m just insane? I’ve thought this through… I’ve never felt like my life was being written down before a few days ago, but then every time I get to really thinking deeply about the woman of my dreams, I get this bizarre feeling someone is repeating what I say kind of distantly like you might repeat to yourself while writing or typing. Is telepathy actually possible? Is she psychic? If she is, why is the woman of my dreams psychic? Did I ask for that when I was writing Santa Claus or the Cosmos for my wish list of awesome? If I did, I don’t remember it.

And see, there it goes again… certain phrases and words, repeated, as if… I don’t know why. Maybe they’re tags for a blog entry, maybe I’m just insane. Still, this just began about 48 hours ago and before that I never experienced anything like it…

Maybe a Martian or a space alien somewhere is reading my mind and taking notation to study me, like a test subject. “Earthling pined for mate, just like previous 48 hours.” That’d be my footnote, I think.

I can’t shake it… I have this stupid grin on my face. I don’t think I care if it is a space alien. I don’t think I want it to stop… especially not if it results in a wonderful woman ending up in my arms.

Woman? Are you there?

“Yes, I am…” she replied somewhat reluctantly. As she did, tears sprang to his eyes. He had truly gone insane or… beyond all hope… there was a woman out there, prepared to answer his dreams.

“I don’t know that I’m prepared to answer your dreams,” she replied gently. “I’m a little bit broken.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by broken,” he replied, hoping she would elaborate further. He was on the edge of his seat at that point, thinking he’d either finally cracked or this was indeed real.

She thought about how to reply to that with care. She could repeat herself yet again about her NDE (near death experience) or go on about the illness that still threatened her life. Even still, she could speak about her broken heart. She said nothing, knowing he’d heard all three of those thoughts.

“You’re making me sad, angel,” he replied. He desperately wanted to hold her in that moment, thinking about how short a time she might continue to exist if her life was indeed in peril. “Where are you? I could put my arms around you until you feel better, at least?” He was greatly concerned that this dreamy lady would be a fleeting acquaintance if he didn’t act quickly to save her.

She sat very still as she thought about what he’d said, re-reading the text she just wrote. “I’m where I’ve been for the past year… at home,” she replied enigmatically. She had no idea where this man was located in all the world and she was not going to give up her location first in case he was yet another impostor hell bent on making her life miserable. Angels were forged by fire, wouldn’t you know.

“I live nearby, I think,” was his reply and tried to show her a map of where he lived within the city. She was nodding before she got distracted by a gnat, clapping her hands together in front of her to end the bug’s life rather suddenly.

“Yes, that does seem to be rather close to my abode,” she agreed. He tried to think of the last time he even thought about the word “abode.” It seemed to him that he was not the only one speaking inside his head. She had to be real… she just had to be! And, not only that, but she lived in walking distance.

“Oh do I?” she asked mildly. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. She did, if she lived by the church she just named. In fact, they could probably meet in the church’s parking lot, if it weren’t nearly midnight and she refused based on the fact that only hoodlums would be out on foot at this time of night.

Touchée,” he replied. Still, hope started to swell within his heart. She existed. She is real. And she’s in my back yard, practically.

Indeed.

He imagined his arms around her, since it was too late to pursue a meeting in the moment. He hoped that would be enough to soothe a broken heart, at least. He was suddenly grateful she was unwilling to meet, as a torrential downpour began without warning. It was as if the elements were supporting her decision to keep the two of them apart. And, maybe they were…

He listened to the rhythm of the rain. So did she. It was indeed a lovely storm, she thought to herself. She knew she had an eavesdropper but didn’t quite care at that moment. It’s not as if her enjoyment of storms was exactly a secret.


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