At 3 AM I was roused and decided to get up the hour early, because, after all, I was dreaming of my first girlfriend, again—and it was annoying.
She was many, many girlfriends ago, and yet, she haunts me like a cartoon or some bad Stephen King picture show.
Strangely enough, I was tutoring her grandfather in his native language, in their home. His daughter (Her mother) was oblivious to my presence, although I sat right underneath her nose. She didn't recognize me, thinking, or rather wishing, that I had died long ago. So, I suppose, in a way, I had returned to haunt her.
Was this my revenge and the underlying purpose of my dream? Was Freud smiling in his grave, smugly saying, "Zee, liebling, I told you so"? Certainly, I remember feeling a bit proud myself, wondering, waiting for the mother-in-law who would-never-be to gasp in startled discovery of my insidious subterfuge.
I also recall how some how the grandfather and I were moving farther and further away from our original intentions with each lackadaisical session, and that with each step awry, I was somehow slyly moving a subtle nudge closer to Patricia Marie—again.
Thus, suddenly awoken and drawn into full consciousness of the futile musings of my unconsciousness, I decided it would be self-defeating to try and go to sleep again and fall back into this innocuous nightmare.
The lesson here was deep, poignant and profound—first impressions last a long fuckin' time, maybe forever. And maybe, I should resignedly add to that—it's not good to be on the losing end of one's first love.
I wonder then, should I subsequently advise—"Never fall in love"? "Break up before it's too late…"?
No. For inevitably, I believe, if it was not her, it would have been the next one. And thus, instead of 40 girlfriends and 20 years ago, I just might be retelling this Gettysburg-ghost story-address with just one less of those subsequently divine experiences.
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