Maybe

Maybe the dream date can exist.

Maybe it can be with him, the one that got away. One of the many that got away.

Maybe it can be Jake.

Maybe it can be Charlie.

Maybe it'll be Francis.

Maybe Drew.

Maybe him. Maybe the one after him.

Maybe someone new.

Maybe I'll meet someone at the quaint coffee shop next to home, and not through a misleading dating app. on my phone. Maybe one day we'll agree to meet in my apartment, or theirs. Maybe beforehand we'll meet at my favorite Los Feliz Cafe and Bakery---my "Happy Place." Maybe I'll be able to share my favorite chocolate cheesecake with him; maybe share the names of my favorite cashiers who always greet me with their smiling faces, smiling faces battling the unhappy moments endured through each date employed there. Maybe I'll be able to share a place with him where I'm not only happy, but feel accepted on any given date.

Maybe afterward we will head to my home, or his. Maybe we'll sit together, a glass of Pinot or Merlot in hand, and watch something on TV. But not "Golden Girls" or "RuPaul's Drag Race," two staples of our community. Maybe we'll watch something thought-provoking and plot driven, like "Dexter," "Shameless," or "Breaking Bad." Maybe a film classic like "Wait Until Dark," "Breakfast at Tiffany's," or "An Affair To Remember." Maybe we'll be able to watch anything, a glass of Pinot or Merlot in hand, his other hand on my shoulder.

Maybe...maybe this will be the fate of our dream date.

Maybe it won't be a single episode of Golden Girls or RuPaul's Drag Race that leads to a shirt removal, my chest bare.

Maybe it won't be directly to a bed, no words said.

Maybe it won't be a whisper in my ear, a hand to my mouth, my own words unsaid.

Maybe he'll listen to my suggestions--my internal objections--without trying to reassure me with his selfish logic. Maybe he won't go in unprotected.

Maybe it'll be safe, protection of my body and soul.

Maybe I'll feel good during it too.

Maybe his kisses will ease away the pains.

The pain of his "Be quiet" and "Stop Talking," running through my mind long after the dream date.

Maybe the dream date doesn't exist.

Maybe my wishing for it is a nightmare in itself set to replay until my last date.

Maybe I'm dreaming too big. Maybe I'm dreaming of more than I deserve.

The dream date doesn't exist. I've told myself this repeatedly, not with a glass of Pinot or Merlot in hand; there is no numbing beverage that can replace the numbness in my ravaged heart. A heart too tired to dream.

Maybe the tiredness is the way to proceed. Maybe I need to dream of single Friday nights at my favorite Los Feliz Cafe and Bakery, where my favorite chocolate cheesecake and the smiling faces of my favorite cashiers suffice my lucid dreams; dreams that feel like nightmares with every surrounding couple; men and women and men and men and women and women face to face, cheesecake only complimenting their smiles, handholding, and kisses-- their dream date. Maybe someday I'll be the only needed compliment to my dream date.

Maybe the dream date will be sitting at home watching Dexter, Shameless, or Breaking Bad or anything with a glass of Pinot or Merlot in hand. Maybe the touch of my own skin will suffice. Suffice and make the "maybe" and "someday" in my head go away.

Maybe someday my nightmare will end, of my dream date.