Dreams are fickle little fragments of missed opportunities, shoulda woulda coulda-s, what if’s and forget me nots, and tonight’s was no different.
He dreams in black and white as if I’m viewing his memories from the stills of film wrapped and preserved in a wheel made of tin; ten cent picture show starring Captain America and his best pal, Bucky Barnes.
They chuckle at something someone out of my peripheral says and he chances a glimpse at his friend almost for reassurance, or maybe something else, I can’t put my finger on. Ironic as I twist his memories into tendrils twining them between my fingers, hoping to see more of his smile.
My fingers snag on a memory, their faces looping between shock and awe, his jaw clenching minutely, his eyes squinting in disbelief, again turning to his left, where Steve’s almost too perfect teeth grin wide and his eyes sparkle with mischief-
I finger the looped memory back and forth, pausing, rewinding, the reel stuttering momentarily and as I strain to find the person in my peripheral I hear their voice instead.
It’s one I would recognize anywhere, the cadence of her words echoing in my ears; I let the memory fall from my fingers and I wake from his dreams, suddenly sick to my stomach.
I slowly shake the memories from my clouded eyes and stare at the woman in his dreams; she is me and I am her and I for once have no idea what this means.
