I think I had or I think I have and I think I feel that everything is real. Somehow. For I have fallen in love with a man that has no face. At night he tucks me in, whispering how sweet I am, how things will be all right, and reminds me of our little dreams for tomorrow. He kisses my cheek good night and his last words always were ” sweet dreams, my love”. At dawn, he brushes his fingers on my cheek as he wakes me up. Half-asleep I smile at him and he kisses my forehead. He hugs me tight, our legs intertwine and we kiss passionately until the sun’s up. We make love under the full moon, we share our bodies over bodies of water. As I write he comes up behind me, kisses my cheek, and leaves a pack of gum or a box of bite-sized chocolates because he knows what I need most when I’m working. Once in a while we go to theatres and watch movies we know we’ll have a dozen comments about. We eat outside and debate on what we just watched, what we’re eating, and what have been happening to our lives lately. Then we’ll go home, he’ll cook a new recipe, always a new recipe because he loves to experiment on food. We’ll eat together on the couch or on the carpeted floor, in front of the fireplace. Silence. You’ll only hear the clink of our wine-filled glasses as we toast for another wonderful day together.
But then again, reality kicks me once in a while and the next thing I know am sitting alone in front of the fireplace, burning old pages of my diaries that nobody has ever read which was actually meant for the man I fell in love with but he has no face at all.