Strange Dreams...
I stand in a crowded, dimly lit parlor. Ahead of me I can see a boy that I know. I am the girl of this story. He sits behind a desk on which are several piles of small books and journals. I walk up to him, confident, smiling, unafraid. He smiles at my approach, offers me one of the journals and a book, tells me he will sign it for me. This boy is an author. I nod my head, eager for his attention, this special notice he has taken of me among the many people who surround us. He opens the journal to where I should sign, and I see that I already have. Not in the scrawling cursive I use today, but a different hand. Block letters slouch sideways along the page, thick and rough with a child's earnest desire to get it right. Still, the N's are backwards, but I recognize the page. I have seen it before, and this startles me. I look back up at the boy, unsure, and he smiles more broadly than before. He opens the cover of the book he has signed for me, and follow his finger to where it points out the inscription: "like me," it states. My heart leaps with joy at this romantic gesture, subtle yet perfect in its execution. My happiness consumes me, and I want to tell him that I feel the same way, when something stops me. Beneath the boys finger I see a name. It is not his, it is mine. I have signed this book, in a blatant attempt at winning this boy's heart. I back away, ashamed, as the boy laughs in my face and puts the book and journal into his backpack. I stand and wait for him, but he leaves without me.