As I lay in the dark, scanning the vast barrenness of my bed I run my hand over the empty landscape where he would sleep. Who is he? I don’t know. Last night as I dreamt he was a celebrity I had seen in an interview earlier that day. That wasn’t really who it was of course. Really he was just one of the muddy puddles in my memory, a puddle that used to be an ocean of love, joy and ultimately sorrow. He was the puddle I still occasionally dip my finger in, swirling it furiously trying to create a storm, a wave, something. Of course it never yields the desired results and as the puddle slowly dries up I lose interest.
I am filled with sadness and disappointment as I permit this dream man to lie in my bed and hold me. This is not what I want and I know it, even deep in slumber I know he isn’t the one who can change the landscape of my bed. As my eyes flutter open and my mind drifts back into conscious awareness, I am relieved and disappointed to find that the empty space in my bed has not been occupied.
When I can’t bear thinking about it anymore I roll to my other side and stare at the other silhouettes in the dark room. The furniture is just a collection of shapes in the quiet, lightless room. This room feels foreign even in the light. It isn’t really my room. I haven’t built my room, my bed, not yet. I assemble my room and space in my head. I begin my plan to rebuild. Things are falling back into place. Everything is nearly reassembled.
I am ready to begin again, out on my own. I become excited at the prospect of having opportunities to date, socialize and entertain. I smile in the dark. I drift back to sleep full of hope and optimism. I am ready. I am excited.