I dreamt about you last night and I…want to know, is there a cure?

It’s kismet. It’s a dream so, of course it fucking is. I’m wearing these ridiculous bright green leg warmers, capri gym trousers, like I’m going for a run or to aerobics. I leave people I know, and ten steps out, there you are, across the road, matching my pace: your home’s the way we’re going, so it makes some sense to be there. You’re like, “Fate. Shit.” And I say, “Sure. You don’t believe that, do you?” But against odds, or only in this momentary jolt, you believe it. With me, you do. And we’re both dumber for knowing the other, in this way. Because reason is like an optional extra, an on the side salad dressing we wouldn’t start to drizzle, unless we had to.

You invite me over. I don’t make excuses like in real life when we walked this route, when I knew we’d see your family, worried what they’d think, of us together, years later, like this. Being a dream, they say what I wish they would. “Hi,” I think. Then the narrative skips, a scene deemed unimportant by the director, even if clues in it, prepare us for later deaths or laughs or kisses.

In town, the people I know ask about you, where you are, and I say, “Why would I know where one Facebook friend is over another?” Their smiles call bluffs, and work, because, like an earlier appearance, you walk past the shop that we’re in, and they open their eyes wide like a secret’s unwrapped like a chocolate box, like a ribbon. I go to grab you, but can’t find you in the street, or through windows, and when I’m back at the people I know, there you are, too, sat in the middle of them, like a commuter with not enough space for a briefcase, or arms.

The people I know are less judgemental now, move to let me sit there, and you hand me a present. “Why did you get this? You didn’t have to get me this.” It’s a necklace. It has three guitars on it. I have no idea why three guitars, or guitars even, and under your breath you say, “Matching,” and I know that, somewhere under your shirt is the same. I wonder if your wife bought you it, or your girlfriend. You put mine on. I wake up.

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The Dentist

I’ve ignored every toothache I’ve had and every boyfriend telling me to find dentists, get doctors, gets told that I’ll fix myself and I carry on fixing, Googling, standing in the Health section in bookshops as long as it takes: until someone tells me to buy it. Never.

Soon, my sister will qualify and every question, lump, scratch, scar, eye flash or floater, will be hers to answer, dissect, know.

I used to wait for saviours, named in songs and words written by men or god-given depending on the historical accuracy of the people teaching or talking or sprawling. Now, I am my own. And when I buckle, when the pain’s a bone burner, I call in contacts of contacts of mine, never select anyone randomly, because that would add weight to serendipity, fatalism, creationism, love.

This won’t be the first time I’ve sipped blood, smelled blood, died.