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Dreams, Dead and Otherwise
Scott was sitting across from me. His hair was longer and straight, and he wore a heavy grey ski jacket, appropriate for the ski lodge where we were talking. His presence was rather unusual, and I sat speechless, observant. His hand was on mine. I knew why he was there -- it was a dream, after all -- but I pretended not to know and care even less. The apology came genuinely and thoughtful; soothing to the palate, it was sweet and softly pleading. I turned my head away and threw a crass reply with practiced lips. Scott wasn't the type of person to allow his desires to be hindered by my childish resistance, and flinched, continuing unscathed. He wore down my barriers with his acid tenacity, and I pulled away. Melting out of the dream, and into my down comforter, I pulled away because it was what I wanted. I refused to let my head convince -- dare I say, outsmart -- my heart into accepting what it wants out of mere desperation. And although I become disheartened in my wait for rescue, I won't accept anything but the real thing. I wouldn't delude myself. I won't lower my standards for a watery, fantastic replication of the real thing. I'll be steadfast. I promise.
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