The Girl of My Dreams

I had a dream about a girl last night. She was perfect. She had auburn hair and a voice as sweet as maple syrup. Sometimes she looked a little like my ex-girlfriend Jen, but at other times she looked like my seventh-grade teacher, Ms. Martinez. And at other times she was a golden retriever.

At one point, she told me what happens when we die and then recited the “King Kong” monologue from “Training Day.” She was clearly very smart.

I saw our whole life together. We lived in an apartment that was also my old high school, and even though I had to go back and take a math class that I’d forgotten about, she didn’t mind at all. She would write me all these love notes that I couldn’t read because the letters kept moving around, but the sentiment was very nice.

I loved how cultured she was. She knew every song by my favorite band—not just the radio hits, their whole discography, including some unreleased stuff that was a mix of silence, gibberish, and frightening loud bangs. She was known around town and even had a standing reservation at the White House State Dining Room. Also, whenever we were in Jersey she could get us into Bada Bing!

We went on romantic dates where we’d eat a picnic while falling off the Empire State Building, or watch an art-house film while being chased by shadow men. After just a handful of dates and near-death experiences, I took her home to meet my great-grandparents. They absolutely loved her, and asked how she got her radiant skin and where she bought her colorful clothes, so different from their sepia-toned skin and sepia-toned clothes.

Things moved pretty fast from there. Our wedding was such a special day, and, boy, was I nervous. I knew she was the one when I showed up completely naked with my teeth falling out, and she just smiled. She didn’t even complain that our wedding attendees were all cats who had died because I forgot to feed them.

We started looking at houses in the suburbs and found a neighborhood that was perfect. Rows upon rows of identical houses with my dream girl standing in the driveway of each one, begging me to come in. Then, suddenly, we were in New York Cancún City and put a down payment on an eighty-five-story beach shack. I always was more of a city slash beach-resort guy anyway.

The years started to race by—one moment I was getting an award for most handsome astronaut at work, the next I was with my dream girl diving headfirst into the pile of gold coins we had amassed for our retirement.

I knew it was going to end soon. My dream girl started sounding more and more like a garbage truck. I did my best to say goodbye. She said that she would try to see me again but that she had to go be other people’s dream girl in their dreams. I was a little offended and felt like she could have left that part out. Then I realized that my dream girl and I hadn’t even had sex! I was just about to suggest we do that when I woke up.

I guess it’s for the best that it was just a one-night thing. The real girl of my dreams will want to have sex with me. ♦