Dreamberg
Right away, I was crying. I was lying on this big bed, facing an even bigger window and just crying. I felt lonely and dejected without knowing why. Then Greenberg came into the room, cautiously as though afraid I might be a violent sad person.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, unable to really hide the annoyance in his voice even though I could tell he was trying. For me, he was trying. I sniffled and turned myself to face him, giving him what was probably a doleful look, even though I couldn’t see it. I felt doleful, and sometimes my feelings are betrayed on my face. His expression softened then, which happens rarely with Greenberg. Coming over to the bed, he sat down beside me and kept giving me that look. “I’ve never known you to be like this before.”
I wiped my eyes, giving him a small smile. “You’ve never known me before, period.”
He smiled a small smile back at me and, still cautiously, wrapped his arm around me. I rested my head on his shoulder and he leaned his against mine. “Let’s not both have nervous breakdowns now, okay?” He said it jokingly, but I could tell that that was something he was really worried about.
We stayed like this for a while, comforted just by being with each other.
Then somehow - as often happens in dreams - it was suddenly the next morning. I woke up and found myself alone on the bed again. I slid off and went down the hall. Everything in this dream house, outside of our/my bedroom was dark and tinted with blues, like in some strange movie thriller. “Greenberg?” I called. It never once occurred to me to call him Roger.
I walked into the living room. There was an off-white comforter stretched out across the fold-out couch and a figure was curled up underneath it. I raised my eyebrow, wondering why Greenberg would be sleeping in another room, without me. But I noticed, upon closer inspection, that the top of a head was peeking out of the blanket, and I realized that this sleeping man looked like (for some reason that I do not understand) Woody Harrelson. I was relieved, but only for a minute, because that still gave me no answers as to where my, I assumed, boyfriend was.
Turning around, I walked back down the hall to our room and laid back down on the bed, curling up. He knew that I was feeling weird about being alone right now; why wasn’t he there with me? Just then, I heard a soft, familiar snore that sounded like it was coming from the bedroom next door to ours. Curiously, I got up off the bed and went out to investigate.
That bedroom’s door was open. Why had I not checked in there before? I couldn’t remember even seeing that door before. This house must’ve been in Wonderland or something.
I peeked into the bedroom, and there, under another off-white comforter, was a blonde head (that made me immediately think of Meryl Streep, as though she’s the ONLY blonde woman in the world) and, next to that sleeping figure, Greenberg. All curled up, facing me, and snoring softly in a way that I found adorable except not right now because he was in bed with someone else.
A bit of my hair fell in front of my eyes as I stood there, mouth slightly agape, unable to move or stop looking, even though it hurt to do so. Greenberg’s eyes suddenly opened and grew wide when he saw me standing there. My jaw clenched and I gave him my best scowl.
“Sara…” he said.
I turned and walked back into my bedroom. I laid down on the bed, curled up, let out a few sniffles and started crying softly. “What am I doing with my life?” I asked myself out loud. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m too fucking good for this.”
Greenberg came into the room and sat beside me. “I’m so sorry. It isn’t what you think.”
I looked up at him, pouting. “Oh really?”
Widening his eyes the way he always does when it seems his thoughts are too much for him, he got up off the bed and went to sit on the floor with his back up against the dresser. After a few moments of looking at him as he gave me a sad, guilty look, I got off the bed, went over and sat down beside him. “So, what do we do now?”
He looked at me. “Write me a letter.”
“What?”
“Whenever something upsets me, I write a letter to it. It makes me feel justified. If I’ve upset you, write me a letter.”
I nodded. “Hmm, okay. I will do that, then.”
He blinked at me. “No, do it now. Right now.” He was starting to speak more slowly, like Simple Jack but not. He wasn’t going full retard; it was just like his anxieties were getting the best of him and he was slipping out of his right mind. It was scary to witness.
“I’ll just get my stationary out of the-”
“NO!” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, looking at me imploringly. “Please stay here with me.”
Most people might’ve just left or tried to distance themselves in some way, but not me. My heart just ached for him. I still felt so much love for this insecure, vulnerable, neurotic, often rude but deep-down sweet man. I couldn’t be mad or upset with him anymore, even though what he appeared to have done was terrible. It was undeniable that he needed me and I needed him. Everything else beyond that stopped mattering.
“Okay,” I said soothingly, rubbing the back of his hand with my thumb. “It’s okay. I’ve got paper in here. Let’s write it together, okay? You’re better at this than I am.”
He nodded quickly, almost nervously. I stood up, went over to the nightstand and produced a small stack of thin, pink paper. I found a pen on top of his nightstand and went back over to him, sitting down once more. He gave the paper a once over and nodded his approval.
“Do you want to write it here, or go somewhere else?”
Suddenly, we were on the deck of a cruise ship.
I looked around. “Okay…”
Greenberg tilted his head to the side. “Write ‘Dear Greenberg’.”
Clicking the pen alive, I held the paper to my left hand and wrote, speaking it out loud as I wrote it. “Dear Greenberg, I am writing this because I am upset with you…” I looked up at him.
He nodded, full of encouragement, and he was smiling even though this letter was meant to be an attack against all that he stood for, according to his letter-writing rules.
I cleared my throat and continued writing. “But I don’t even remember being upset with you. The truth of the matter is that I like you. I really, really like you and my anxiety issues stem, not from you, but from missing you.”
Greenberg closed his eyes, still smiling.
“Love… Sara.” I folded up the paper, kissed it and handed it to him.
He opened his eyes and looked down at it as though surprised. Then he looked excitedly up at me. “Can I read it?”
I smiled. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“Okay,” Greenberg said, and he unfolded the paper and started reading.
As I watched, a small speck of light floated down, caught the paper, set it on fire and melted the letter, and Greenberg, away.
Then I woke up. Greenberg was gone.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, unable to really hide the annoyance in his voice even though I could tell he was trying. For me, he was trying. I sniffled and turned myself to face him, giving him what was probably a doleful look, even though I couldn’t see it. I felt doleful, and sometimes my feelings are betrayed on my face. His expression softened then, which happens rarely with Greenberg. Coming over to the bed, he sat down beside me and kept giving me that look. “I’ve never known you to be like this before.”
I wiped my eyes, giving him a small smile. “You’ve never known me before, period.”
He smiled a small smile back at me and, still cautiously, wrapped his arm around me. I rested my head on his shoulder and he leaned his against mine. “Let’s not both have nervous breakdowns now, okay?” He said it jokingly, but I could tell that that was something he was really worried about.
We stayed like this for a while, comforted just by being with each other.
Then somehow - as often happens in dreams - it was suddenly the next morning. I woke up and found myself alone on the bed again. I slid off and went down the hall. Everything in this dream house, outside of our/my bedroom was dark and tinted with blues, like in some strange movie thriller. “Greenberg?” I called. It never once occurred to me to call him Roger.
I walked into the living room. There was an off-white comforter stretched out across the fold-out couch and a figure was curled up underneath it. I raised my eyebrow, wondering why Greenberg would be sleeping in another room, without me. But I noticed, upon closer inspection, that the top of a head was peeking out of the blanket, and I realized that this sleeping man looked like (for some reason that I do not understand) Woody Harrelson. I was relieved, but only for a minute, because that still gave me no answers as to where my, I assumed, boyfriend was.
Turning around, I walked back down the hall to our room and laid back down on the bed, curling up. He knew that I was feeling weird about being alone right now; why wasn’t he there with me? Just then, I heard a soft, familiar snore that sounded like it was coming from the bedroom next door to ours. Curiously, I got up off the bed and went out to investigate.
That bedroom’s door was open. Why had I not checked in there before? I couldn’t remember even seeing that door before. This house must’ve been in Wonderland or something.
I peeked into the bedroom, and there, under another off-white comforter, was a blonde head (that made me immediately think of Meryl Streep, as though she’s the ONLY blonde woman in the world) and, next to that sleeping figure, Greenberg. All curled up, facing me, and snoring softly in a way that I found adorable except not right now because he was in bed with someone else.
A bit of my hair fell in front of my eyes as I stood there, mouth slightly agape, unable to move or stop looking, even though it hurt to do so. Greenberg’s eyes suddenly opened and grew wide when he saw me standing there. My jaw clenched and I gave him my best scowl.
“Sara…” he said.
I turned and walked back into my bedroom. I laid down on the bed, curled up, let out a few sniffles and started crying softly. “What am I doing with my life?” I asked myself out loud. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m too fucking good for this.”
Greenberg came into the room and sat beside me. “I’m so sorry. It isn’t what you think.”
I looked up at him, pouting. “Oh really?”
Widening his eyes the way he always does when it seems his thoughts are too much for him, he got up off the bed and went to sit on the floor with his back up against the dresser. After a few moments of looking at him as he gave me a sad, guilty look, I got off the bed, went over and sat down beside him. “So, what do we do now?”
He looked at me. “Write me a letter.”
“What?”
“Whenever something upsets me, I write a letter to it. It makes me feel justified. If I’ve upset you, write me a letter.”
I nodded. “Hmm, okay. I will do that, then.”
He blinked at me. “No, do it now. Right now.” He was starting to speak more slowly, like Simple Jack but not. He wasn’t going full retard; it was just like his anxieties were getting the best of him and he was slipping out of his right mind. It was scary to witness.
“I’ll just get my stationary out of the-”
“NO!” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, looking at me imploringly. “Please stay here with me.”
Most people might’ve just left or tried to distance themselves in some way, but not me. My heart just ached for him. I still felt so much love for this insecure, vulnerable, neurotic, often rude but deep-down sweet man. I couldn’t be mad or upset with him anymore, even though what he appeared to have done was terrible. It was undeniable that he needed me and I needed him. Everything else beyond that stopped mattering.
“Okay,” I said soothingly, rubbing the back of his hand with my thumb. “It’s okay. I’ve got paper in here. Let’s write it together, okay? You’re better at this than I am.”
He nodded quickly, almost nervously. I stood up, went over to the nightstand and produced a small stack of thin, pink paper. I found a pen on top of his nightstand and went back over to him, sitting down once more. He gave the paper a once over and nodded his approval.
“Do you want to write it here, or go somewhere else?”
Suddenly, we were on the deck of a cruise ship.
I looked around. “Okay…”
Greenberg tilted his head to the side. “Write ‘Dear Greenberg’.”
Clicking the pen alive, I held the paper to my left hand and wrote, speaking it out loud as I wrote it. “Dear Greenberg, I am writing this because I am upset with you…” I looked up at him.
He nodded, full of encouragement, and he was smiling even though this letter was meant to be an attack against all that he stood for, according to his letter-writing rules.
I cleared my throat and continued writing. “But I don’t even remember being upset with you. The truth of the matter is that I like you. I really, really like you and my anxiety issues stem, not from you, but from missing you.”
Greenberg closed his eyes, still smiling.
“Love… Sara.” I folded up the paper, kissed it and handed it to him.
He opened his eyes and looked down at it as though surprised. Then he looked excitedly up at me. “Can I read it?”
I smiled. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“Okay,” Greenberg said, and he unfolded the paper and started reading.
As I watched, a small speck of light floated down, caught the paper, set it on fire and melted the letter, and Greenberg, away.
Then I woke up. Greenberg was gone.