San Francisco, California

Tahoe

The night before the breakup, last night actually, I had a dream about our trip to Lake Tahoe. I was stood at the edge of the water, on the pier we had sat on only a few months before, and I was looking over the edge, down into its depths. There was no color in the water, no light at all; inside, the lake was the darkest of greens. It was a color without variation in hue or saturation and the water was silent. All was dead still.

And you were stood there beside me with your long, black hair flapping about even though there wasn’t any wind. It looked like you were underwater but you were stood right there beside me, dry as a bone.

And you wouldn’t say a damn thing.

I gave you a tiny nudge in the side expecting a reply but there was nothing. You didn’t move. And I turned to you, asked how you were doing. Again, nothing. You just stood there, drowning.

A moment later I found myself hovering above the lake in the center and you were far away. I’m not sure how I could hover above the water so effortlessly but for some daft reason, and without question, I began dropping all my things into the lake: my phone, my wallet, my keys. I couldn’t stop. All the photos I had taken of you. Gone.

I woke up in a cold sweat, tearing at the side of my bed as if there was something I could do that would save you from the drowning. But then I found myself alone. And you weren’t there to comfort me. And I wasn’t there to comfort you.