And never the twain shall meet

THE DREAM:  It's different each time.  This time we're in bed.  It's dark and he's lying next to me on his side, facing me.  I'm lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, unable to believe he's actually here with me, in my apartment, in my bed.  I smile at nothing, at the walls, at the air.  I whisper, I love you.  He says nothing, but climbs over me and out of the bed and walks to the floor lamp and switches it on.  I don't dare look at him, I just lie there waiting for I don't know what.  He returns to me, to the bed, and sits on the edge of it.  He looks me dead in the eye and pushes the hair out of my face.  Say it again, he says, not yet smiling, but ready should I coax him into it.  I finally look up at him, my heart pounding.  I love you, I say again.  I love you, too, he responds, and before the elation swallows me whole I wake up.  I'm grinning, weightless, free.

THE REALITY:  You watch too many movies, he says.  I'm standing in his office, a few feet from his desk, facing him askew, arms crossed.  It's all wrong, I think.  We're both smiling, but for different reasons.  I'm just happy to be near him.  He, I imagine, is incredulous of my hyper-idealistic notions of romantic love.  I'm merely content to be talking to him about romantic love, about anything at all.  He looks at his watch.  I don't know, I say, desperately trying to buy some time, just a few moments more.  Relationships are hard.  He laughs.  You're telling me, he says, referring implicitly to his girlfriend of eight years, now his fiancee.  I watch him deftly switch off his computer monitor, gather his things.  But you're a veteran! I sputter.  Again, I get a laugh.  That laugh.  So goofy yet entirely self-assured.  I wake up mornings hearing it.  Hardly, he replies.  I'm still learning every day.  I follow him as he gets up, exits his office, walks into the hall.  The passing of time is palpable now.  I'm increasingly conscious that each moment brings me closer to the long stretch of evening I'll have to pass without him.  I fumble for a show-stopper.  So what keeps you there?  What makes you stay?  It's a bold query, but I think I've got him.  He stops.  Turns back to me.  Looks directly into my face.  That's a question without a single answer, he says, after a minute.  It's not one thing, it's several.  Little things.  A lot of them.  He turns back and ambles toward the exit.  I've lost him.  I stand paralyzed for a moment, unable to formulate a retort.  Wait, a retort?  When did this become an argument?  To be continued? I call airily after him, but he doesn't hear me.  The door's already shut behind him.  I stare after him, but not for long.  My feet feel rooted in the ground, and I'm forced to concentrate hard to return to my office.  I sink into my chair, glowering, weary, trapped.