Apparition

I dreamt about you last night. Woke up, grabbed a glass of ice water, and looked at a city lit by street lamps. I've been awake ever since.

You were an unwelcome spirit in my bedroom, the rational angel offering succor to an unsettled soul.
 

It was one of those dreams that was very realistic--the kind that are scary because it makes too much sense. It was the words we exchanged that upset me; too much like one of our "normal" conversations. Of course, you argued your points well. Even in my dreams you challenge my thought process. Damn you. I responded with earnestness you've never seen, saying things I would never verbalize to you in my waking moments, and it frightened you. "How could you possibly understand," I repeated after each of your comments. My latest mantra I hold fast, much like a drowning person futilely clinging to a buoy in a churning, hostile sea.

Except in my dream I had the last laugh, which so rarely happens. I turned the tables, adjusted the fluorescent light, and questioned the examiner. The context of the questions bothered you, but you answered nonetheless. I already knew the answers; I needed to physically hear what I knew instinctively. So much I know viscerally, and so little I do about it. Is it my stubbornness or lack of common sense?

 "Think it through first--you're certainly smart enough," you half-stated, half-taunted as you stood up and zippered your jacket to leave the intense tete-a-tete. It was raining. You had had enough, and I wasn't about to concede. Either it was the force of the rain or the sound of my footsteps that gave me the moment of hesitation that I needed, as you didn't immediately walk through the door. I grabbed your arm and kissed you harshly on the mouth. You stood there, dumbfounded. I laughed. "Be impulsive--live a little." I walked out into the rain.