Dear Diary,

There is a house for sale on Folsom Boulevard, a brick bungalow built in the 1920s with a swooping line to its hidden front door.

I like this house.

I liked it enough to look it up on Redfin, to see the price (beyond my budget) and to swoon over the old fashioned rooms, the folding glass doors and rounded archways, the built-ins and original hardwood floors. In my mind’s eye, I make it over, keeping the traditional bones of the house but adding subtle, modern touches.

That night, I had a dream.


Lover and I were sitting on the old wood floors in front of the fireplace, barefoot together, with my legs thrown over his and my arms around his waist. We were looking at paint samples, laid out like a hand of cards on the floor, planning for room renovations.

“What about this?” he asked, selecting a lovely slate grey.

“Hmm,” I pondered thoughtfully, solemnly. “I really wanted, like, a bright plum purple.”

He jerked his head up and stared at me, his eyes wide with an expression of what the fu– only to see me grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh yeah, you’re funny,” he said as I burst out laughing. As he has gotten to know me more and more, I have perfected the deadpan delivery of saying something silly or outrageous, inserted into those rare, quietly serious moments between us.

“Well, what about this for the dining room?” he asked, sliding forth another neutral paint chip, this one the color of the Sahara sand.

“I’d really like something brighter, like neon yellow,” I counter but my voice wobbles, full of giggles, and he nods with that uh-huh kind of unspoken intonation before I have even finished. And then I am laughing too hard to continue, crowing out colors like “Fire engine red! Puce! Chartreuse!”  until he grabs me and pins me to the floor, tickling me until I am breathless and gasping, then kissing me until I no longer struggle, no, until I am pulling him closer and closer, peeling his shirt off over his head, desperate to have him, to taste him on my tongue, to smell him all over me as he pushes my dress up and my panties down, as I whisper his name and, at last, beg him not to stop.

Yesterday we drove by this house, the house of my dreams, en route to elsewhere.

I pointed it out and said, “There is my house, for only half a million dollars!” And I laughed, because it is so much easier to be silly than serious. And because it was only a dream.

“It’s a nice house,” he agreed, taking a long look as we passed. “I don’t know that I’d want to live so close to Folsom Boulevard, though. It’s a really busy street.”

And I smiled to myself and pretended that he could see what I had seen, a future where someday we lived together.




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