Just A Record of a Dream. Really.

“I saw it in a dream!”

My eyes used to roll damn near into the back of my head any time I heard someone say that. And they still might - I am NOT one to believe in fate or the like. Ever the pragmatist, that’s me.

But I’ve never experienced something like last night.

Maybe it was because I went to sleep so late? The tequila? The rum? It didn’t have to do with my tolerance - I’m an anomaly in my family and can outdrink people three times my size. Maybe body chemistry? I went to sleep too late, maybe? I don’t know.

My brain continues to try to logic it out, but the little voice tucked away in the recesses there says,

“This was different, and you damn well know it.”

That little voice freaks me out. For one, it sounds almost like my mother, which already lets me know that (irritatingly enough) there’s a degree of accuracy to what it says. Second, I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve heard this voice clearly, and each time has been for a major event. And it’s never been wrong yet. Whether or not I listen to it is another story entirely.

Anyway - the dream.

This was a normal night at work - I was behind the bar, making drinks, and talking to a few regulars, and we had live music that night. It was our normal group of performers, and they were laughing and talking to someone in a group that had just walked in. I wouldn’t normally look up for that reason, but our little bar is dimly lit for ambiance, so when a light flickered near the front, I notice, and look up - especially since it coincided with a hearty laugh from our vocalist.

I scan the group quickly - six guys, all about my age - and just as I’m about to look back down to grab a bottle of Angostura bitters, someone else walks in, apparently part of the same group.

He’s clean-shaven, a little on the taller side, with black hair, smiling eyes, and a strong jaw. As he slaps his hand down on a friend’s left shoulder from behind, he grins widely, with a face that clearly states, “I have arrived to cause trouble for you, friend!”

The man is incredibly attractive to me, and I’m finding it difficult to peel my eyes away. I hate it.

I notice that when he stands next to the group members, he’s well-built as well. I return to building my drink, mildly irritated at my own observations, when the regular seated in front of me asks me for a napkin.

“Sure, let me grab that for you,” I reply, and I reach across the bar counter.

And from the corner of my eye, I see the man in the group snap his eyes to my face as soon as he hears my voice, and a look of shock and recognition plays across his features. I can guarantee that a look of confusion crossed mine, because I have never seen this man before in my life. He smiles, and mouths, “hey,” and I do that awkward... silent, smile-and-nod thing of acknowledgement. You know what I mean. Unless you're someone who has never experienced this awkwardness, in which case, go you!

He frowns and cocks his head slightly, not breaking eye contact. I reply with a blank smile, nod, and continue grabbing the napkin.

At this point, I am convinced that he has mistaken me for someone else, and look away, as the hostess has started to lead them to their table.

Ah. They’re at T4 - directly in front of the bar and performers.

Ah. He’s still looking at me. He looks irritated, and I look away again.

The lead vocalist has started a new song, and pulls up a member of the group he’s in to sing along. This is pretty normal, especially since we have the occasional local singer or performer come in.

Soon, three members of the group have been up to sing, and the vocalist stops and looks to the the crowd and around the bar, smiling and tapping her chin with one of her red-lacquered nails.

“Why don’t we make this into an open mic? I’m always here, but you all aren’t!” she exclaims with a bright smile. The crowd laughs and claps along, and I smile to myself. This isn’t the first time she’s done this, and I start to ready her favorite drink - this is code for, “I want a damn drink, and I’m a little tired of singing tonight.”

I go to grab the lime juice and demerara, and the first brave performer takes the stage: a rendition of “Peroxide Swing.” As soon as the first person goes, a few others decide to try it as well, and soon the lead vocalist is happily sipping on her drink on the side, playing hype (wo)man, and adjusting the sound for them.

I continue to look occasionally at the man, and I notice every so often that he’s still looking at me with that look of irritation. Weird, but okay. I have drinks to make.

Soon, there’s a bit of a lull in the music, as everyone has more or less had a chance to sing. The lead vocalist looks like she has resigned herself to the fact that she will need to put herself back into the rotation, and leans in to tell the musicians what to play-

“Have you ever heard the bartender sing? She’s good, you know!” says a confident voice above the crowd.

I look up in shock - everyone in the bar is looking at me now, regulars included, with looks varying from amusement, to shock, to confusion. I look at him - the source of the comment, and realize that he is now gleefully smiling at me, like a cat who got the cream.

The lead vocalist looks at me and smiles, her hand to her chest in a gesture of disbelief.

“You know, I don’t think I have…” she says, staring at me with a challenge in her eyes.

I am internally cussing, externally blank. Out of fight, flight, or freeze, I have chosen the ice statue option.

He continues, and so my eyes begin to play a nervous game of ping-pong between him and the lead vocalist.

“She used to be in talent shows and some theater things when we were younger. She’s got a great voice,” he says, still grinning at me.

At this point, I am openly staring at him in confusion. I do sing. I did do talent shows and theater productions when I was younger. I love to sing. But I had stopped singing in public due to nerves and a bad experience.

But who the hell is HE to know all of that?

I begin to sputter, make some stupid excuse about how it should really be about the patrons, even as some of my regulars are goading me to go up. The lead vocalist stands and walks over to me at the edge of the bar and grabs my hand, starting to pull me out from around the corner of my safe haven, toward the microphone, as I continue to protest.

And then I hear him say my name. I look at him, in total disbelief, mouth wide open.

“Come on. Sing. It’s been too long,” he says softly, just enough to be heard above the crowd.

There are alarm bells ringing in surround sound in my head, and at some point, I realize that I am standing at the microphone, clasping it for dear life. I have not been able to stop staring at him. I am completely and utterly at a loss for words. And general function, apparently.

The lead vocalist pokes me in the side, and I shake myself to attention. She smiles and whispers in my ear.

“You should just do it. He’s not going to let it go. And honestly, I’m not either at this point,” she admits.

I gulp and look around. I’m already here at the mic. The patrons are smiling and staring expectantly, and my eyes go back to rest on him.

His eyes are soft this time, but also holding a look of expectancy, and… anticipation.

I look away suddenly, and I let out a breath.

“...fine. But I’m just going to sing something acapella that I like,” I say into the mic. Everyone nods, and a few people clap and whoop.

“Erm… this is a song by Jax called, ‘Like My Father.’ I’m learning it for my parents’ anniversary coming up…”

I take a shaky breath and start to sing.

“I wanna come home to roses,

And dirty little notes on Post-Its.

And when my hair starts turning gray,

He’ll say I’m like a fine wine - better with age.”

I’m so nervous. I know the first note was shaky as hell. Kind of hard to not be when I am literally trembling. He’s still staring me down, and I see him mouth, “Breathe.”

I close my eyes and take a slow breath.

“I guess I learned it from my parents -

That true love starts with friendship.

A kiss on the forehead; a date night;

Fake an apology after a fight…”

I know this song, what the hell am I doing? I take another deep breath. One thing I knew about my voice was that I had control and strength. I needed to use it.

“I need a man

Who’s patient and kind,

Gets out of the car and holds the door.

I wanna slow dance

In the living room like

We’re eighteen at senior prom and grow

Old with someone

Who makes me feel young,

I need a man who loves me like…

My father loves my mom.”

I continue. I’ve found my voice again.

“I wanna road trip in the summer.

I wanna make fun of each other.

I wanna rock out to Billy Joel,

And flip our kids off when they call us old.

He’ll accidentally burn our dinner,

And let me be the Scrabble winner.

And when my body changes shape,

He’ll say,

‘Oh my God, you look hot today!’”

A few patrons have taken their damn phones out to start recording. And so has the hostess. Ugh. I’ll hear about this later. I block them out and continue.

“I need a man

Who’s patient and kind,

Gets out of the car and holds the door.

I wanna slow dance

In the living room like

We’re eighteen at senior prom and grow

Old with someone

Who makes me feel young,

I need a man who loves me like…

My father loves my mom.”

Something compels me to open my eyes, and I look at him. He’s still staring. I stare back.

“And if he lives up to my father,

Maybe he could teach our daughter

What it takes to love a queen -

She should know she’s royalty.”

I close my eyes and steel myself.

“I need a man

Who’s patient and kind,

Gets out of the car and holds the door.

I wanna slow dance

In the living room like

We’re eighteen at senior prom and grow

Old with someone

Who makes me feel young,

I need a man who loves me like…

My father loves my mom.”

The relief is setting in. The song is almost done. I warily look back at him. I don’t know what the look on his face means. It’s soft. It’s unnerving, and I have to look away.

“I need a man who loves me like…

My father loves my mom.”

I stop and look around before awkwardly smiling and doing a half-bow. Everyone begins clapping in earnest, and the lead vocalist is cracking jokes about how I ought to come up and sing regularly.

Oh. She’s not joking, she assures me, before laughing about how I’ve apparently turned a, “lovely shade of pink,” even in the low lighting.

I run back behind the bar, and a few patrons pat me on the back or offer a high-five and words of encouragement and praise. It feels… good. Nostalgic, even. I begin to fiddle with the ice as the adrenaline high starts to fall off and the nerves set back in.

“So… how’d it feel to do that again?”

I whip my head up, and see he’s at the bar, less than two feet from me, smiling as he rests his left arm on the counter.

I breathe out and set the ice scoop down, casting my eyes down. “It was… terrifying. But I guess also kind of… nice, I guess,” I replied quietly.

“It’s good to see you again, __________,” he says, matching the soft level of my voice.

I look back up at him, unsure how to proceed, before realizing I had to just ask.

“I’m really, REALLY sorry, but who are you?” I blurt out as I search his face.

The look of hurt that flashed across his face woke me up.

Literally. That’s how the dream ended. I bolted awake this morning with a gasp.

And I needed some way to record what happened, so here we are. Because it was too real. Too vivid. Too accurate. All the details were spot-on, from the feelings, to the facial expressions, to the bar… everything.

He’s the only unfamiliar aspect of the entire dream. I cannot recall someone I know that looks like him. But his face when I couldn’t recall who he was absolutely gutted me. The look of pain that I saw made me physically ill for a few minutes upon waking up.

I don’t know how to proceed from here. I’ve never had this happen before. And this is just me writing down what happened so that I can remember it (ADHD is a [insert choice word here]). I’m still sitting here and processing as I type this out. I already went through my social media accounts and looked for anyone that looked familiar.

No one. Not a single person that looks like him. And so my confusion set in even deeper.

This is just a record of my dream from last night. This morning. Whatever. I’m still barely awake.

His face is just stuck there, in the forefront of my mind, crumpled and hurt. And the stupid little voice in my head keeps saying,

“Well, are you going to find him and apologize to him? Because you really ought to, you idiot.”

Am I really going to search for some guy that was in my dream last night?

…

Dammit, I might.