It’s been ages.
And just when I think I’m finally over you, you decide, “nah, you’re not over me.” And you turn up in one of my dreams again, like that gentle reminder, “you’re never gonna be over me.”
I was trying to Get Shit Done, and you called me on the phone, but didn’t say it was you, like I’m not going to recognise your voice, and thinking how it’s funny that your speaking voice is so much higher and softer than your singing voice, and thinking it’s funny that a decade hasn’t softened your accent. (I think you were laying it on a bit, too, coz you know it gets me, right in my heart.)
And you came round (to my mother’s old house in Upstate NY) and you said that I should interview you, because I’m a good writer, unlike those other idiots (flattery will get you everywhere, boo, even as I was rolling my eyes at your obviousness) and I agreed, even though I was really busy, and took you through into the ballroom. And then I realised, none of the plants in the ballroom had been watered in weeks, and they were all dying, so I had to ignore you, and rush back and forth between the wet bar and the plants, trying to water everything before they died (and some of them died, and some of them drowned, and one even blew up when I watered it, and turned into an ugly fungus that looked like an octopus.)
And as I’m freaking out and saying “OMG, the plants are all dying, and it’s my fault because I’ve been so busy I didn’t water them” you walked up to me and put your hand on the back of my neck, and you started to stroke, gently, with your weird-ass thumb going up behind my ear like I really like, but I just rolled my eyes and said “For fucks sake, Brandon, why do you always do this, why do you always have to try it on? The flowers are going to die if I don’t give them some attention. Can’t you see I’m trying to Get Shit Done?”
And you just smirked and said “I know. That’s why I do it.” And I woke up.