I had a dream last night that I made out with your face.
We were laying on the ground on a blanket in the grass and we kissed. You put one hand on my hip and you wrapped your other arm around my shoulder and put your fingers in my hair.
Do you realize that I've never felt you like that? It felt good. We fit well, my arm intertwined with yours. Our lips fit together perfectly, like when you snap a lid on a container of leftover spaghetti.
"What!" you shouted over the music. "I can't hear you. You had a dream about me? What for?"
I've never felt you like that. I think once we hugged, but it was because I was crying and you didn't know what else to do.
Even though we don't touch, people at the party keep asking if I'm with you. I keep saying no. I tell them you are with someone else. An older woman I've never seen before asks me if I'm with you and I find myself saying, "Yes. Well... sort of."
I lie! I lie right to her face.
You are stuffing your face with potato chips in the corner, trying not to talk to anyone. I like this because I am often uncomfortable and very nervous at parties, but you are worse. This makes me feel like I'm okay. In a different time and place, I don't think we would ever fall in love, but I would still like to kiss you once before I am dead. Dream kisses are always better though, so I bet it would be awful.
I am always wanting to date someone fat so I can feel small and petite and feminine, but then I am also scared that they will die of a heart attack.
All of the people at the party are talking about you, since it is your party afterall. And they made your favorite foods. They keep saying how much they will miss you, but I think they may be lying. People usually just like making food and talking and eating the food they made and saying things they feel like they should be saying. Then they forget about you. I'm sorry to say this, but in between their jobs and getting married or even more simple parts of the day, like making waffles or carrying groceries to their cars, people are not always missing you like they said they would. Perhaps they feel a little twinge in that place between their chest and their stomach, but they build that up to anxiety or hunger and they don't even think about it being you.
"This music is awful," you mumble and go out onto the porch to find a cigarette from a stranger. Somebody that somebody else who knows you brought to the party, saying, "Come on, it'll be fun. It's so and so's so and so."
If this party were at your house, you'd be playing jazz. I'd be wearing a black dress with a sweater and black nylons and no shoes and I'd be smoking cigarettes out of a long cigarette holder. I know you'd take the holder from me and snap it in half. Then you'd take your hands and place them carefully on my shoulders and push me to the ground.
I know you wouldn't do that. I guess the whole idea seemed silly, so I made that last part up.
Now I feel silly.
You are outside smoking with the lady that I lied to and another lady who is not very, very skinny, but is thinner than me. You laugh and let her touch the sleeves of your coat. How does she do that? Where can I learn how to do that? I don't really want to do it, though.
I do think that everyone should touch your sleeves like that so when you go, they can say, "At least I touched so and so's sleeves," incase you never come back.
Sometimes you look at me through the window for longer than two seconds, which is a long time to look at anybody. I don't know what you're looking at. I know it's not really me.
Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.