The improbability of me ending up with her didn’t even enter my mind. We were lying on our sides, facing each other with our heads propped up. Talking about I don’t know what; but it was right, it was natural; as natural as breathing. Enraptured by the shape, the feel, the delicate wrinkle of her pursed lips, as mine landed so softly on hers. Looking at her, I felt perfection, completeness. Everything was in its place.
But I was stabbed by an icicle. My mind scurried to hold on to it, my perfect completeness evaporated; reduced down to a memory of a futile, silly dream.
Slumber bestows a roaring fire inside, and waking disallows it. Waking humiliates you for reaching. I go through the daily motions, smarting from the absence of her lips. Waking laughs at me for thinking about it; and he’s probably right, I probably will never reach it; but if he is going to pull me out of bed everyday and heckle me, I’m going to do everything I can to find those lips, so the fire inside will melt that icicle, and then I’ll punch him right in his big fat mouth!