My Life in Seven Years

I wake from a vivid dream: my subconscious trying to tell me something. I get out of bed, quietly so not to disturb your rest, grab my laptop and set down all I can remember. I always meant to go back through all these dreams and scraps one day, when I ran out of ideas and need something to spark my imagination. That day still hasn’t come.

It’s a beautiful morning, unseasonably warm, and I sit in the front stoop for fifteen minutes watching the sun creep up the street between the trees. Then it’s time for a big cup of ginseng tea with honey and return to the keyboard for a few hours. I’m back in the editing phase – it’s a play about four women rising through the ranks, trying to stay friends.

I’m interrupted twice: first to say bye when you head out for the day, then by a message from a student journalist touching base about the interview about the Trilogy tomorrow. Jay can’t believe I ever agree to these. It’s good practice though, and I’ll always remember my nervous interview Raymond Feist as a student editor, where I was so excited to meet a childhood hero that I forgot to actually take any notes.

Next it’s up the road to the yoga studio, followed by a coffee. On the way home I run into someone I know.

Back at the keyboard I power through yesterday’s emails then proofread that editorial before sending it off. I procrastinate a bit, processing photos from last weekend’s trip up the coast. There’s a nice one of you, your smile at its natural peak, caught between involuntary pleasure and self-consciousness at being photographed. I save it to the album for when we’re apart.

For lunch there are leftovers: veggie lasagna. I eat it cold. You may roll your eyes but it tastes better that way. I resist the urge for another coffee.

I cycle across town to the uni, where the talk goes well. I speak slowly, clearly and don’t run down too many tangents. Afterwards a nervous student approaches with a dog-eared copy of Red Sands, saying he relates most to Min. This kid’s got good taste. I take a selfie with him, notice that he’s sweating and remember how nervous I used to be approaching people I didn’t know.

I’ve got a spare hour so I find a nice patch of grass in the sun and read for a bit before meeting you.

We go for a ride in the early-evening haze and end up at that nice little place, for a drink, then stay on for a little longer because you think the guitarist’s voice is nice. I’m fairly sure you think his hair is nice too. You never knew me when mine was that long.

At home we have another glass of wine and play backgammon. You win, but not by much. We go to bed later than usual and you fall asleep almost straight away. A strand of hair falls down over your nostril. When it starts to tickle I gently tuck it up behind your ear.

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