Hannibal Buress is presenting in a high school gymnasium. He’s speaking about my “casual attitude.” I’m sitting on the floor. A girl I don’t know raises her hand, she has a dark bob and a question for me. I say something to her that makes everyone laugh. There’s some scattered clapping.

Then I’m sitting in the backseat and we’re driving toward water. It’s blue and bright and my stomach twitches pleasantly. I notice without worrying that we’re rapidly approaching the water and that the person driving does not intend to stop. When the water is up to the windows I calmly think, “This was probably not a good idea,” and then I’m outside of the car. There’s a person still inside. He peers out at me through the window and there is a tiny person-shaped wet thing on what I suppose is the armrest of the car door, but the mechanics of the car door in my dream don’t translate, so. Anyway. It’s a dead fetus and it’s very black and very shiny.

I am especially exhausted today. I’ve been sleeping much, much better since I started visiting the beautiful woman with the needles and the tinctures but there are other side effects. Including, but not limited to, feeling awash. That’s as best as I can describe it. Last night I hid in the bathroom and cried the body-wracking sobs of a very small and very distressed child. Diego wasn’t home, I was only hiding from Arwen. She’s really not doing well and that’s what started the crying and I didn’t want to freak her out. Later we fell asleep together on the living room floor. My poor sweet baby angel. I can’t talk about it, but I also can’t not acknowledge that it’s happening. Death is a part of life and I want to honor hers. Our egos insist that the furry beehives in our laps mean more than that they’ve found a warm place to rest, that the floating saucer-eyes above our faces every morning seek more than sustenance.

But does anything need to mean more than that? Is there anything more to seek, really?
I feel okay calling that love.