Meeting the Man of My Dreams

Sometimes I read a Nora Roberts book and envision myself to be a romantic. In those moments, as I turn the page to some hopeless romantic gesture of the hero. I really think to myself, life is such a fantasy. As the story draws to an end, I’ll pretend I have a hero out there for me. And then I close the book and laugh. Laughter is the best transition in between make belief and the reality that I’m no heroine.

I’m the guy who was born a girl and somehow can’t wrap his head around how to tell the world without having to tear limbs and cut apart organs. I’m an unlikely hero in my own perspective. Yet, there is some whimsy that qualifies me to be some sort of heroine. If guys could be heroines, then they can find the man of their dreams. I really think I found him this time.

I can’t say for certain that he’s the love of my life or the man I will be with forever. But one night, I rolled around into a peculiar dream that evolved into something more. The dream began with a restaurant with hues of reds and golds. Red tables? Golden chairs? Light wood with a tinge of gold? Not all dreams are exact in all details.

In my dream, he knows my name. I had this dream before I started calling myself Sopphey, so he knew my birth name. And no matter how the dream replayed or how I retold myself the dream. I didn’t know his name. The back story from there is that we grew up in the same neighborhood. The dream indicates that after months or years after the restaurant we find ourselves again. And the details get sketchy from there.

So hey, we were at a restaurant and we’re bubbling away over the menu. And the waiter gets everybody’s drink order and he turns to me. “And for you Sopphey?”

“I’ll have an orange creamsicle.”

“I don’t know if we have any let me check.” He goes away.

We share laughs in his absence. A friend becomes certain that he knows me from somewhere. The ever logical me, insisted that he heard her call my name. He returns. I custom order a drink. He goes away again and when he returns he stands over my right shoulder to address our table. I custom order a meal and every other time he returns to the table he stands over my right shoulder. Sometimes he leans in to speak closer into my ear.

In the end I don’t pay for any drinks. We enjoy our time and pay. We leave. When retelling this story to a friend, she asked me if he was hot. I don’t deny that he was an attractive man. And then the whole encounter replayed in my head. We had dinner at Red Robin. The tables were red and a type of champagne wood. Other details emerged, him being on the right side of my body. I didn’t know who he was, but he definitely knew me--and I was definitely supposed to leave the restaurant without finding out who he was.

If Nora Roberts wrote my life, I have finally found him after waiting for thirteen some years. In a few months or another ten years I’ll find him again and something magical will happen. While there is a slim chance of any of this being true--I’m the unlikely hero. No matter how many times I find myself remembering this, it’s all so comical.


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