Jed Edgar

Haunted By Dreams: An Author That Can’t Stop Dreaming

I had a dream that you and I fell in love. We sat across from each other in

Castle--that local coffee shop you love. I forget what we were talking about, but I

remember watching your routine. Your delicate hands meticulously stirred your

steaming mug, three times clockwise one counter clockwise and then repeated. Cheap

thin wood froliced in the dark mixture creating a delectable dichotomy of light and dark.

Without taking your eyes off mine, you tenderly traced the lip of the mug with your index

finger. I watched as you lifted the ceramic coffee container, the steam radiated off the

liquid's surface and gently touched your face, the goblet perfectly fit your shapely lips.

It’s funny, everyone has these idiosyncratic rituals or routines they conduct,

usually unbeknownst to the prying eye, but when there is a specific interest invested

within someone these habitual procedures become fascinating. As the coffee hits your

tongue, your lips respond with a smile and as you put the cup back down your eyes

gleam. This small detail causes me to smile and pretty soon we’re just two idiots in a

coffee shop smiling at eachother. You take my hand and lead me out of the coffee shop

and as the dream begins to end--my morning alarm seeping into the fabric of this

fraudulent facade of reality--I remember feeling content.

I woke up with a smile. Registration of the smile occurred before the recollection

of the dream. Why am I smiling at 6:45 am on a monday? Jagged disjointed images of

your hands, your eyes, your smile, permeate my brain, but what sticks with me is that

final feeling of contentment. The reality of falling in love with a dream is the melancholic

realization that it isn’t reality. These juxtaposing feelings of content and melancholy
brew together to create this contradicting concoction of teenage angst. My introspective

self actualization is put to an abrupt halt when I realize that I’m going to be late for class.

I get out of bed--twenty minutes late--and rush through a half-hearted morning routine.

Resolution installs itself within me, as I brush my teeth, I will take you to that coffee

shop.

First and second periods are a blur. Me and Jordyn play hangman on a loose

piece of paper. Mr. V spits gibberish about 19th century tariffs and their role within the

economy and the political sphere. Third period is a quiz, I pass my answers to Jazel,

who smiles gratefully and passes me her juul in exchange. I eagerly excuse myself to

the bathroom, where I run into my guy Largo. Largo is 6’3 245 pounds of pure

unadulterated muscle. I give him the bro hug and feel his biceps ripple against me: in a

way a man can appreciate another man’s body through jealousy rather than attraction.

“Largo, my mountain shaped friend, fancy seeing you here.” I say jokingly.

“Crazy right? It’s almost like we go to the same school or something.” Replies Largo

jovially. We each take a chuff of our vapes and then trade. the taste of mango and

cherry hits my tongue, “tiger blood today?” I ask in a smoky haze. “Yeah I traded Island

mist with Brotz for it. It’s salt nic so it hits your throat harder due to the concentration of

salt and,” I zone out at this part. Largo is an intelligent man despite his demeanor. every

conversation we have ends with him educating me on sex, drugs or philosphy knowing I

had little to no experience with any. We straighten ourselves up in the grimy, recently

fogged up, bathroom mirrors. We’re on our way out when an idea strikes me like a

bucket of water. “Largo,” I say nonchalantly to not give anything away, “I need you to

switch seats with me in chemistry later.” Largo looks at me puzzled and asks, “why?” I
make up some quick excuse about not wanting to sit next to Mike, which was partially

true, he nods reluctantly and agrees as we part ways. I return to class and as Ms.

Carrington drones on about rhetorical strategy (something that probably would have

come in handy as I write this), I zone out and formulate some type of witty opening line.

“What’s a smart, attractive man like me doing without your number.” I know, I

know, I had forty five minutes to think of an opening line and that’s what I came up with.

Luckily, I was faint of heart and chickened out when I took my seat in chemistry right

next to you. My heart was racing, the skeleton in the corner of the room was staring

daggers at me. People began piling in, overwhelming chatter took over the white walls

of the classroom. My palms are clammy, I pull out my phone and pretend like I’m texting

someone--my go to move in any anxiety-inducing social environment. “You’re in the

wrong seat.” I look over, you haven't even taken your eyes off your notebook, but your

lips curve at the clear cut confusion on my face. “Yeah well, someone is in mine,” I say

pointing over at Largo, “besides, I don’t really put a lot of stock in a seating chart.” I

deliver this line in a way that would make Clint Eastwood and Harrison Ford proud, the

delivery is at times more important than the content of the joke. You pause your drawing

and look up at me inquisitively, as if trying to read if I was joking or not, I recognize this

look and give you a sly grin as you burst out laughing. My anxiety dissipates at the

sound--laughter is the cure to my social jitters. My confidence kicks in, as Mr. Driver

begins the perpetually impossible task of getting this class to shut up long enough to

learn something; I begin cracking jokes like a dad, who’s had one too many at the

neighborhood barbecue and for some reason you find my corniness hilarious.
 Thus begins the courting process. Due to the incredible innovation of the

smartphone and social media, there has been a revival of a courting process: the talking

stage. In the days of old, yes I’m talking about the 80s, my dad would tell tales of how

you could just walk up to anyone and ask for a date. Not today, perhaps it's the safer

option, you get to vet all the possible candidates to fill the role of significant other

without facing our generation’s biggest fear: awkwardness. We begin talking daily on the

phone, making our way up from me sliding up on your stories adding a witty comment,

to daily conversations. While I never see you in school--Mr. Driver noticing the

discrepancy in his seating chart put an end to that--we talk nightly over facetime. We

develop our own jokes, our own pet names for each other, our contact names for each

other become Goose with two pink hearts next to it. We begin this beautiful three week

technological relationship, until I begin to question it, I feel you growing closer. I’m

scared, I know so much about you, I replied to your professions of love with professions

of my own. Everything is going according to plan and yet I’m scared. I push these fears

to the back of my mind and propose I simply just have to hang out with you more.

Resolve once again instills within me, I’m taking you to that coffee shop.

You’re sitting alone in the quad. The sun glares off your brown reddish hair--a

result of you trying to dye it red and doing it wrong making it orange and trying to dye it

back to brown. “Hey goose.” I say with a smile. You look up from your phone and smile

wide. You jump up and run to give me a hug, our first hug. You squeeze me tight, your

head laying in the nook of my neck and shoulder, your hair smells like strawberries. We

hold the hug for what feels like forever but at the same time not long enough. We pull

apart, but are still touching. You look up at me, pinch my arm and exclaim, “you’re
actually real.” Mirroring her excitement I smile and pinch my own cheek, “Thank God, I

was beginning to think I wasn’t.” She laughs--she laughs at the stupidest things for the

longest times--for two minutes she laughs, tries to gain her composure then bursts out

in fits of giggles again. Looking back, it was my favorite thing about her. Finally after

completely dethroning all rhythm of the conversation she looks at me and says, “goose

guess what?” She looks excited, “you’re dropping out to pursue your life long goal of

becoming a stripper?” I guess jokingly. “I wish,” she laughs, “no, I got excused from

class because I said I wasn’t feeling well!” An idea forms in my mind, “Guess what?” I

say, mimicking her joy, “what?” she asks in the cutest mock serious way. “I also got

excused from class by deciding to ditch, what do you say we get out of here?” I ask.

She jumps up eagerly and agrees, we exit the school hand in hand.

As we drive over to Castle, you somehow get control of my phone and find my

guilty pleasures playlist. We’re singing That Way by The Backstreet Boys at the top of

our lungs as we pull up to the parking lot. I ordered your coffee, an Iced coffee with

caramel swirl, oat milk and 4 pumps of sugar, a move that gained admiration in your

eyes as we took a seat. “You have my order memorized?” you ask in awe. “Of course.” I

say with a smile. “Ugh now I feel fat.” she sighs. She would always say that whenever

the topic of food or drink came up and I would always assure her otherwise. Our coffee

comes and you pick it up so fast and take a large gulp. This is my first sign things are

wrong. All the thoughts I pushed in the back of my head are now swarming me like a

pack of lions. I think back on the dream, and the vibe was completely different. Instead

of pretty little gestures you were gulping coffee down, instead of contentment I felt
anxiety. There was no reciprocated smiling. There was me, having a panic attack in a

booth and you, happy to finally be with me.

In that booth I made a choice, distance myself before things got too far, bail out

before I couldn't. I had fallen in love with a dream, my imaginated version of you and

when you turned out to be something different I panicked. The reality of falling in love

with a dream is the melancholic realization that it isn’t reality. The even sadder

realization is that looking back at it--after learning from other relationships--I think it

could’ve worked. If I had never had that dream I never would have gone up to you, but if

I had never had that dream perhaps our lives would look very different right now. The

reality of falling in love with a dream is the melancholic realization that it isn’t reality.

Fiction can never top reality because fiction isn’t real. I realized by mistake I looked to

you in the same way Gatsby looked towards Daisy, the fulfillment of a dream. When it

became clear you weren’t the fulfillment I looked for I left.

This has been on my mind recently because over this last summer we would try

this again. I was determined to look at you for you and I fell in love with you, for real this

time. However it seems that our situation would be reversed. I’d be the naive excited

one, who fell and you would be the one who left. The heartbreak still lingers as I write

this. The anger I have been holding over your head the past few months has dissipated

over the course of writing this. I wish we had better timing. I’ve hated you the past few

months, as I’m sure you hated me the few months after I dropped you back off at school

with broken promises of a next time. But, the memories I associate with you are still

good. I’m sorry, I should’ve stayed in that coffee shop and chose to make it better than
the dream. I guess in the end I learned nothing, because now the dream that haunts me

is the one where I stayed.