TM 183: Tell me a secret
(Dated back before the Disney press conference)
Tony looks at his laptop, and reads the message:
Steve --
Here's the craziest part.
I still have that dream. I have it at least once a week. I had it last night, here at Disney, sleeping next to Jean Grey -- which, as any man in his right mind could tell you, is not a circumstance that ought to breed discontent.
In the dream, you and I are married. We live in the mansion, the old one by the park -- before it was destroyed. But it's not a dream of denial. I know that, because I first had the dream years ago, long before "one of our number will turn against us and burn my home to the ground" surfaced as even the mildest anxiety.
It isn't a sex dream. It carries the implication of sex in the background, of course. In the dream, you're my husband, in a very real and undeniable sense, with everything that implies. But the dream itself is ridiculously, miraculously, G-rated (miraculously, because that isn't true of many of my dreams; not even many of my thoughts). We have a nice kitchen, and plants, decorating magazines and a tank full of fish. We're standing in the kitchen, having a conversation, while you chop the carrots. The funding bill for the Avengers is coming up before a congressional committee. You're going to testify and we're discussing what you should wear -- the uniform jersey (your preference; it's cute, like you think people will forget who you are), or a fetching china-blue Oxford I picked up at Brooks Brothers (I know the shirt exactly; every time I've been in a store like that, as long as I've known you, I've glanced through the shirts and thought about what shade goes best with your eyes. That isn't a dream, that's a fact.)
That's the dream. Sometimes there are scrambled eggs; sometimes the conversation goes differently, but it is always about something mundane, usually an issue that has been settled years ago. It always ends the same way. You cut himself, with the kitchen knife. I step toward you. You hold out your hand. Our fingers touch. I wake up.
There's no Sally in that dream. There's no Jean. Wanda's name comes up, sometimes, along with anybody else who has been on the team. But the dream is about us. Like I say -- I've been having it for years.
It's pretty evident to me -- this whole damn thing is my fault. Wanda grabbed onto this dream and she fit it pretty well with the things that other people wanted. But it's all about what I wanted.
And with everything that's changed, I still have that dream.
And I still wake up, wishing to God it were true.
-Tony
He hits 'Delete.' He gets up, and goes to prepare his speech.
Tony looks at his laptop, and reads the message:
Steve --
Here's the craziest part.
I still have that dream. I have it at least once a week. I had it last night, here at Disney, sleeping next to Jean Grey -- which, as any man in his right mind could tell you, is not a circumstance that ought to breed discontent.
In the dream, you and I are married. We live in the mansion, the old one by the park -- before it was destroyed. But it's not a dream of denial. I know that, because I first had the dream years ago, long before "one of our number will turn against us and burn my home to the ground" surfaced as even the mildest anxiety.
It isn't a sex dream. It carries the implication of sex in the background, of course. In the dream, you're my husband, in a very real and undeniable sense, with everything that implies. But the dream itself is ridiculously, miraculously, G-rated (miraculously, because that isn't true of many of my dreams; not even many of my thoughts). We have a nice kitchen, and plants, decorating magazines and a tank full of fish. We're standing in the kitchen, having a conversation, while you chop the carrots. The funding bill for the Avengers is coming up before a congressional committee. You're going to testify and we're discussing what you should wear -- the uniform jersey (your preference; it's cute, like you think people will forget who you are), or a fetching china-blue Oxford I picked up at Brooks Brothers (I know the shirt exactly; every time I've been in a store like that, as long as I've known you, I've glanced through the shirts and thought about what shade goes best with your eyes. That isn't a dream, that's a fact.)
That's the dream. Sometimes there are scrambled eggs; sometimes the conversation goes differently, but it is always about something mundane, usually an issue that has been settled years ago. It always ends the same way. You cut himself, with the kitchen knife. I step toward you. You hold out your hand. Our fingers touch. I wake up.
There's no Sally in that dream. There's no Jean. Wanda's name comes up, sometimes, along with anybody else who has been on the team. But the dream is about us. Like I say -- I've been having it for years.
It's pretty evident to me -- this whole damn thing is my fault. Wanda grabbed onto this dream and she fit it pretty well with the things that other people wanted. But it's all about what I wanted.
And with everything that's changed, I still have that dream.
And I still wake up, wishing to God it were true.
-Tony
He hits 'Delete.' He gets up, and goes to prepare his speech.