Avi Kaplan: A Collection of Short Stories

In Dreams

You've never been much of a dreamer.

In theory, you know you dream—everyone does—your problem is remembering them. People always looked at you strange when you mentioned this fact. "How do you not remember what you dream?"

You merely shrug; you have no good answer.

You don't remember your dreams.

Until he shows up.

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At first, he appears in fragments. Broken pieces of dreams you barely remember when you wake.

Piercing green eyes.

Long, dark hair.

Neatly trimmed beard.

A warm, perfect smile.

A long, enveloping hug.

You find these glimpses infectious and feel the warm pool of anticipation in your stomach as you lay your head on your pillow, hoping the last few days of dreaming continue. Soon, the brevity of the dreams begins to unnerve you and you long to dream in more than mere photographic snapshots.

Even craving it, the first real dream you had left you unprepared.

The air is crisp, your sweatshirt barely enough to keep the chill from reaching your skin. But you don't seem to notice or care as you run, your hair blowing behind you and your laugh trailing in the wind. Pausing behind a tree, your slightly numb fingers grip the rough bark and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing, your face burning with the urge to smile.

Despite your stealth and quietness, he finds you regardless and you let out a shriek as his cold fingers slip under your sweatshirt to tickle your skin. His laugh and beard prickle your neck and he kisses you quickly before releasing you.

"You're it!" he yells before running away.

You smile to yourself and tug your sweatshirt back down, the coolness of his fingertips still burning against your flesh. "You can run, but you can't hide!" you taunt back before chasing after him.

You wake suddenly, the dream world crashing around you. Desperately, you scramble to remember the pieces, quickly filing away the memory of the dream.

It's not until later in the day that you realize you can still feel the burn of his beard against your skin.

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Ever since that first real dream, he visits you almost every night. Some dreams are longer than others, seeming to encompass the entire night. Others are those short, fragmented clips that leave you craving more.

You briefly wonder if you're going crazy. The dreams feel like memories, as if you're stealing brief glances of moments you'd lived in a previous life. They feel so utterly real; you wake up feeling his skin on yours, the sound of his voice in your ear and the weight of his words on your soul.

The rain is falling down hard, splashing off the concrete in fat drops. Your clothes are soaked instantly and with toes squishing uncomfortably in your shoes and your hair plastered to your face, you storm away from the house.

It was a stupid argument.

You know it.

He knows it.

But that didn't stop either of you from spitting words that you didn't mean, the weight of those words leaving bruises on both your hearts.

You don't make it far before you hear the door slam behind you and the heavy slap of feet on the ground behind you. "Where are you going?" he yells, running to catch up to you.