Page 29 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
We lapsed into silence, thinking about the moody musician who may or may not have written a song about me.
I was officially the world’s shittiest friend.
But I kept telling myself that I’d done nothing wrong and that we’d never been inappropriate.
Neither of us had ever made any sexual overtures or innuendos, and except for accidental arm brushes, we’d never touched.
Sure, I dreamt about him occasionally but that didn’t count. I had no control over my brain while I slept.
There had been absolutely no cheating involved. That’s what I kept telling myself anyway.
But I couldn’t entirely convince myself that it was true.
There was something there. An emotional connection that was impossible to deny.
I knew it. My guilty conscience knew it. And he knew it too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Later that night,I scanned my bookshelves and found a package wrapped in newspaper.
I sat cross-legged on my bed and unwrapped a cassette and a tattered paperback copy ofThe Dharma Bums.I plucked a note from between the pages. Lined paper, folded into a square.
I knew his handwriting. Blue ink. Deep grooves in the paper whenever he wanted to emphasize a point.
I had the feeling that once I read this letter, I wouldn’t be able to pretend that we meant nothing to each other.
After I took a few deep breaths, I started reading.
Dear Jane,
This was the book I was reading the first time I saw you from a window seat in a diner. It was two and a half years ago, but I still remember the moment so vividly.
You reminded me of a young Jane Birkin (on the album cover of Je T’Aime…Moi Non Plus). I wanted to chase after you, grab your hand and usher you to a seat at my table. I hadthe feeling, even then, that we could have talked all night and never gotten bored.
But you were with some other asshole, so I didn’t chase you. A big part of me thought I didn’t have to. I had some crazy notion that I’d see you again soon. That somehow you would appear in my life at exactly the right time.
Joke’s on me.
Shortly after that, I was forced to return to Detroit. Penniless and broken down with nothing to show for the months I’d spent in New York.
On the Greyhound to Michigan, I wrote a song for a girl I’d never met. I wrote another song in my drafty attic bedroom, and yet another while my father lay dying.
I now refer to that time as the season I spent in hell, cycling through Dante’s Inferno. Death, Taxes, and Working for the Man.
But you kept me going. Or, rather, that one fleeting, perfect moment when I saw your face and it gave me hope.
When I finally saw you again...well, you know the rest. I didn’t react well, and for that I apologize.
I guess timing isn’t our strong suit.
And who was that fucking asshole you were with that night? He was wearing a turtleneck, Jane. That right there should have been a red flag. No guy in a turtleneck will ever make you happy.
You are a ballad in E minor. You speak to my restless spirit. Introspective, dramatic, intense. A ballad of tension and unresolved emotions.
You were the most beautiful dream, Jane.
Thank you for the music.
