I dreamt in shades of Pantone. Bright solid colours. A fracture of images devoid of any narrative. A scrapbook of fragments inspired by an afternoon of Turkish music at the recital hall. We had meandered past city shops, past bridal couples posing in sandstone doorways and sojourned at the evening Noodle Markets.
I dreamt of blistering reds, Pantone 032 burning into 485, strung across the twilight sky as Chinese Lanterns. I dreamt of buttery yellows, a table full of yellow flowers. Sunlight bright. Sunflower warm. Bridesmaids wearing saffron satin gowns, their bouquets of eggy yellow and coconut cream. I dreamt randomly of skinny stretch jeans in 325... clear and clean and as cool as the shallows of a tropical beach. I dreamt of a black and white striped skirt cut diagonally on the bias, twirling like the tenure of a whirling dervish. It twirled around and around in slow motion until the stripes slowed and embraced slender legs, the stripes folding over themselves like an unfurled umbrella.
And finally I dreamt of Gabe, sitting on a street corner on a blue milk crate. Pantone 300. Indigo jeans and white shoes. He was wearing a black T-shirt. He was talking to someone, leaning forward over his long legs. Earnestly engaged. His blonde hair was a little longer than usual. I didn’t see who was talking to. I cast no one of consequence in that role. And while the lights of the Noodle Market bokeh-ed behind him, I tried to remember him owning that black shirt. The only one I could recall was from a time when he was much younger. I watched him for a few dream minutes, my eyes unwavering. He didn’t see me and I didn’t give him any lines to speak.
And there the dream ended on the street corner at dusk.
I search for him each time I sleep.
I wake with such yearning.
