I woke up this morning convinced I dreamed of you. Maybe it's the "Letter from Your Future Spouse" YouTube Tarot Readings I listen half-in, half-out to at work sometimes or the fact that when I close my eyes, just before the sleep hits me, I go out mumbling about how I just want a glimpse of you. A hint of you. Little smile growing on me, like a fool, as I knock myself out.
And then last night, I must have dreamed of you. You might have heard my telepathy, or some god wants me to have that hint after all. So if we ever meet now, I'll know it's you.
I don't have your features down. You came to me in a body, so closely resembling one of my exes, which freaked me out. Tall. Broad-shouldered. British? Messy hair. Sweet eyes. Laugh lines.
But that's anybody.
So how might I know it's you?
There's this specific feeling. Maybe it's not you I dreamed of, but the promised feeling I'll have, when we're together. Some Polaroid of married life.
In this dream, you didn't care if I was bleeding. "I don't fucking care," while looking up at me from the floor, grinning wide. Those laugh lines. Those laughing eyes, how they crinkled at the edges. I knew, that even if I smeared my blood on your shoulders and your cheek, you wouldn't care, you'd be delighted. I knew it. I felt like I knew it. So woah. Fuck. Hey. My hips rested on you and my usual thickness became a feather, a trust on your body, there. So in this Polaroid of us, my first hint was that safe, enveloping feeling. I didn't have to be big bean after all. I am vulnerable against you, safe in the cocoon of your laughing eyes and your tough, thick big bean body, wahhhh.
In this dream, we got up from the ground. You led us to the kitchen, commenting on something I've long forgotten in my waking hours now. But whatever you said made me laugh what felt like forever. My cackling laugh, not my "oh that's funny" laugh. No, it's my "fuckin' hell hot diggity dawg" laugh, "I'm a feckin' witch" laugh. And that's the second hint, right there. I felt this sincere promise that no matter what, you're going to make me laugh, forever and ever. I would later, tell my Mother about this dream, and she said, "good". Between the possibility of smearing blood on you and you not giving a shit about it, and laughing with you always, I've yet to meet you but I think I'm lowkey falling already.
Then we got deeper into the kitchen and you opened the fridge, bending down to stare into it, and asked me over the fridge door, your eyes sweet on me, "Hey, what would you like for dinner?" It felt natural in this dream for me to be barefoot, T-shirt on only, in our kitchen, gazing on you. Your bare chest and neck reflecting the refrigerator light. Something about it was so endearing and domestic and home-y, that made me melt inside. Your first instinct was to make whatever I wanted. You're my baby daddy, for real. Fucking real.
So that's my third hint: you care about my tummy. Lots. Filling it with good food. Wondering if I've had my lunch yet. Wondering if what we've cooked for dinner is good enough for a Friday home-style dinner date or if we ought to scrap it all, and head to KPot for that Korean barbeque sear, where thigh-to-thigh, I'd chomp happily and reach to turn our meat over, while you place in more meat, cutting them into smaller pieces. Where you'll get to see the little dimples in my cheeks, as you slide in another piece of sweet, sweet galbi into my mouth, and alas, the happy chomping continues. My eyes would close, experiencing all the fireworks those flavors make, and when I open them again, I'm watching you. Your thick, bulging forearms, shiny from your own sweat and the heat of the grill, still cutting, perfecting the next cuts to feed me, wahhhh. Your eyes, focused, meticulous. Sharp. Your arms, wahhhhhh. Your chest. >-<
I want to burp next to you.
I want to bloat next to you, in the car ride home. I want your hand on my tummy, sliding down to my thighs and squeezing. I want to be knocked out, mumbling about random events I find amusing, and hear your laughter follow after each deserving half-thought, the shiny Houston skyline passing us by. This is our America. This is our city, or whatever city I am in, when I meet you.
You've got a sweet bad bitch in the passenger's side, and a lot of "I don't fucking care"s to come, dear Future Husband.
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Yes, dear readers. I am ovulating alone. It's crazy to ovulate alone in Houston. Hahahahahaha~
My friends have all received the ovulating Reels I've sent their way. Everyone is aware of my schedule by now. Thank you! Lol.
