I had a dream about you last night. It was a good dream.

You came to me as I walked on the path in the woods, behind the church. Where we used to go to be alone. Your hair was the same curly, dark blonde, but your face showed signs of wear and tear. Your plump lips and sincere smile remained. The dress you wore resembled the ones you wore to church. It felt good to be with you.

We spoke about how I got stranded at your house for three days because of the snow. About how your dad pretended not to like me. About how jealous the preacher’s daughter was, because I was with you, not her.

“Remember when I dated that guy, Mark, and he would drive me to church in his new Trans Am?” You asked.

“Yup.”

“I never really cared for him; not like I did you.”

We walked further, in silence.

“And remember that other guy I used to make out with in the parking lot while you were walking in the church?”

“Uh huh.”

“I never really liked him either; not as much as you.”

More silence.

A tear came to your eye, and then, “You know, Amod, I’ve never really loved anybody but you. It’s always been you. I still love you today.” You held your arms open, welcoming me for an embrace.

At this point, I was overcome with emotion. The sound of your voice, the smell of your perfume, and the expression on your face take me back more than a few years. I decide now to do what I wish I’d done then . . .

I’m not sure if my fist or your fall down the rocky slope did the most damage. I’m relatively sure, however, that your missing teeth was the work of my second and third knuckles. You gaze up the hill, dumfounded.

“Love hurts. Go fuck yourself.” It was a very good dream.