Shot down in flames

Yikes, this is getting scary and fun. I dream about I again.

I’m back taking classes at Towson and my class is in the old building on campus which use to house the cs department. I get there and the class is packed so I end up near the windows in the back.

In walks the dame.

She doesn’t see me and takes a seat in the back as well. I hide from her all class until the end when we meet and exchange pleasantries.

“Hello.” “Hi.” “What’ve you been up to?”

The next class and I want to tell her something about the way that I feel. I’m going to do it afterwards.

As classes finishes, I walk out before she does. I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs. It takes her awhile to get out. I see her now amidst the crowd. As she descends, I ascend up to her.

“Hey. You got another class?” “No, I’m done.” “Can I walk with you to your car?” “Sure.” “I got something to ask.” “Yeah?”

Now here’s the deal. I want to ask her what happened between us when we were kids. Was there something there? Did I blow it? (Most likely yes and no. Stupid adolescents.) Except this is what came stammering out.

“Would you like to get coffee?” (Coffee?!)
“No. I got to run.” (Ouch)
“Uhh. I mean on saturday?”
“No.”

She’s leaving and I can’t do anything about it.

“You know I’m asking you out on a date?”
“Sure.” (Meaning she knows. Damn!)

She’s getting into her Lexus SUV. Think. Desperation sets in. I can’t let her leave without attempting to re-establish a relationship.

“At least, can I get your phone nymber?”
“I’m in the book under my sister, Becky.”

Becky? What’s her last name again? O, yeah. I remember. I don’t think her sister’s name was Becky.

She’s gone and I feel low. I get into my old Jetta and smoke a cigarette.

Then I am with my cousin and brother smoking in the parking lot of Friday’s. Telling them about this. It must be my subconsious telling me to blog this. I tell them the sad tale. They say clean out your ashtray there’s cigarett butts allover the center console. I open the door to dump the ashtray out.

Then I wake up with the taste of stale cigarettes. Was this only a dream?

Update: I think that this isn’t I, but SL. Why do I think that? SL had a sister named Rebecca as hot a brunette as SL. SL was also somewhat aloof. We had good times together but nothing spectactular. There’s no history there. I usually don’t dream about her.

• Category: Uncategorized
• Tag: dreams, nostalgia, that girl