one day years from now, when you’re old and gray, in the pornstar retirement home–wow, what a place that would be! you would be sleeping, and Mother God would send you a dream.
it would be a dream about me. I’d be there in front of you, smiling and happy, riding my bike, with the sun behind me. my breasts would be so pretty, and you would love me. love glowing in your chest, your tummy, your dick. was I a good friend to you?
you’d wake up feeling a strange happiness of a flavor you hadn’t tasted in years, and you’d ask yourself, “what was that lady’s name? the fat one who wrote me those weird letters. she was always writing love letters to her friends. oh yeah, I never read her email.”
then you’d remember that email I sent you that you never read. you were too busy making mischief in the Pacific Northwest, and then everything changed. “I wonder what she said to me?” you’d ask.
you’d put on your slippers and get out of bed, shuffling to the hall, joints all hurting you. “hey, can I use your computer?” you’d ask the nurse who was nicest to you.
“what are you talking about?” she’d ask.
“I want to check my email!” you’d say.
“what’s email?” she’d ask. “go back to bed.”
then somehow you’d get on her phone anyway, assuming there’s electricity in the future, and gmail still exists? you’d check your email and read the one from 2020, where I told you exactly how I’d felt about you, over the years.
you’d smile at the part where I described holding your hand at the Ethiopian food restaurant, and you’d wince when I said you were another entitled white guy with an anger problem. the ending would bring a tear to your eye.
then you would turn to my spouse, who was your pornstar retirement home roommate and lying in the next bed, and say, “I never knew you felt that way about me.”
you would be referencing the two paragraphs toward the middle about how he sprinted to you at the taco place, and how his voice had a special tenderness that was only for when he spoke on the phone, to you.
my spouse would not have been much of an actor himself, but he worked as an on-site nurse for porn shoots, tending to people who overdosed and anyone having issues with their piercings, comforting those who had damaged a banjo string.
mostly he became friends with directors and gave them advice about plot elements and camera angles, which was more valuable than applying bandaids, removing splinters, or advising about concussions and pesky overly long-lasting erections.
then you’d say, “I wish you would have told me.”
my spouse would turn to you and say, “honest communication was never your strong suit, Friend. just look–it took you 40 years to read Nest’s love letter.”
then you would cry because I was dead and you never fucked me. my spouse would cry because he fucked me plenty, and he really missed me.
from then on, I would visit you occasionally in your dreams, and when you woke up from a dream about riding bikes with me, the cherry pie you ate every morning for breakfast would taste extra delicious.