White linen

Last night I had a dream. A sweet, innocuous, gentle dream. I’ve been trying to get back into it since I woke up.

It was the two of us, cuddling skin to skin. I don’t remember if I was wearing pajamas. He was wearing a lungi, tied up at the waist. I didn’t expect that. I remember we talked about it — I asked him if it rides up when he’s sleeping, because I guess that’s what happens with a nightie. I’ve never slept in a nightie. Not even shorts really. Pajamas ftw.

We were in a large square room, the walls with rectangular curtained windows, skirted by sofas and chairs, and mattresses spread out in the central space. It had the feel of a common hall converted into an emergency dorm. Around us people milled about, some familiar faces, others simply extras on set.

We were both topless.

He had claimed a mattress in the corner near the window. I don’t remember coming to lie down beside him. I don’t remember exactly how we ended up spooning semi-naked. I do remember the feel of his stomach on my back, his left arm curving around my waist, his hand in a loose fist in between my breasts. My left hand resting on his, my head on his right arm. Our legs hugging close like a river to its bank. (Him laying a kiss on my shoulder.)

We were talking. It was inane — something about a Spotify subscription? He said something I didn’t understand, and in confusion I turned to face him. I don’t remember where the conversation went after that, but I do remember snuggling into the soft hair on his chest, my left arm scrunched between us, my right arm around him. His strong arms encircled me and held me tight — he remarked how small I looked in between them. I smiled. You have the softest skin, he said, stroking my back. And in the warmth of our bodies, we slept.

When my eyes opened, it was early morning, and a gentle breeze was carrying in nascent sunlight past the white linen curtains. Around us, sleeping bodies lay draped across the furniture and mattresses; had there been a party? Were they sloshed? Where had the two of us been?

We were in exactly the same position as before, neither of us having moved an inch. I stirred; and he woke too. Good morning, I said, and apologized, assuming I had morning breath. Your arm must be dead, I said. He smiled down at me. Not at all, he said. What time is it? I asked. Six fifteen, he said.

His neck and shoulder muscles stood out in the soft sunlight. I reached up to place a hand on his cheek, my fingertips in his scraggly stubble. You’re beautiful, I said. He smiled and said, Did you know I used to have a huge crush on you?

I propped myself up on one elbow in surprise. What? Why didn’t you ever tell me?

He chuckled. You were too busy going after someone else. He raised his eyebrows knowingly.

I opened my mouth to object, then thought for a moment. That is true and also not true, I said sheepishly.

He grinned and pulled me back down into his arms. The next moments (minutes? hours?) were a happy blur. We reminisced — Do you remember when? — and giggled at our past selves, our embarrassed laughter muffled in each other’s skin. I was wont to laugh at anything he said; it was the most natural reaction to his subtle, often unintentional humour. We were just the same as before.

There was something thrilling about being the only two awake in that room, like being the last man and woman on earth. Something valuable about that innocent intimacy, the honest pleasure of familiar company. The meeting of eyes shining with mirth. The surge of oxytocin in our veins. (A single kiss.)

I love mornings, I said. He grinned.

Oh, take me back.