Alexis Boone

Last night I dreamed about a boy I have only seen once.

It was a year ago. Friend of a friend, in town for a day or two. He was built like a Versache model. High cheekbones, a waist I fancied I could put my hands around. He had a long coat, motorcycle boots, a knife in his pocket. I found out later that he went traveling by way of the Orient Express.

Last night I dreamed he and a few other friends were at my house. They sat on the bed, so I had to sit too. "I can't stay awake," I told him, and lay with my face against the scratchy old comforter.

He stroked my hair.

That was the only touch. It satisfied me so deeply, to simply have my hair brushed back like that, over and over again. He didn't even talk to me, in the dream. I didn't even look at him, as beautiful as I remembered him to be. Even in my dream I closed my eyes.

It was amazing how simple a dream it was.