“Hey, Beck...didn’t you work with this guy a long time ago?”

    Becky brushed a wayward strand of long brown hair from her face and looked up from the touchscreen.

    “What guy?”

    Patrick clicked “skipback” on the remote, then spun the monitor so it faced his wife.

    “Must be a slow news day.” Patrick got up from the couch, stretched, belched loudly. He didn’t say “excuse me.” He never did. “I’m going to bed. You should join me soon. Might be your lucky night.” He belched again.

    “After I finish organizing these photos.” I’m sure it will take me hours.

    When Becky looked again at the TV, she gasped. One hand went to cover her mouth and the other fell to the table. Her thumb hit “Delete” on the touchscreen, erasing two hours of tedious work. She didn’t notice. Or care.

    Aaron.

    His hair was grayer around the temples than she remembered. What had it been? Five years? Six? And he looked tired. Like he hadn’t slept in days. She laughed aloud when the reporter asked him about  the secret to lucid dreaming.

    “It’s a combination of things - sounds, scents, mostly.” And drugs. But he wouldn’t say that. Certainly he wouldn’t say that. “And drugs,” he said. The reporter was unfazed.

    “So what you’re saying is, with the right combination of these things, you can dream whatever you want? For as long as you want?”

    “Not anything you want. But anything you’ve experienced. Yes. And sometimes it takes hours to get there.”

    “What’s the longest you’ve slept in order to get to a dream?” The reporter was pretty, all sexy eyes and flirty blond hair. But Aaron wouldn’t have given her a second look had he met her on the street.

    “37 hours.”

    “37 hours? Isn’t that unhealthy?”

    “Depends on the dream,” he said. A wry smile brought momentary life to tired eyes. He was looking into the camera. Looking right at her. Becky’s heart began to race.

    “Any chance you want to tell us about the dream you’ll be choosing for this next marathon?”

    “Nope.”

    “Not even a hint?”

    “I’ll tell you the song I’m using as a sonic trigger.”

    There was a brief pause. Again he looked into the camera.

    “It’s an old song called ‘This,’” he said.

    Tears pooled in Becky’s eyes.

    “So did you know that guy?” Patrick was standing in the hallway, staring at her from the shadows, mumbling through his toothbrush and dripping white foamy toothpaste onto the black tile floor.

    Becky turned away, but not before a single tear fell. It landed on the touchscreen. On a ten-year-old photo of Patrick wearing a goofy grin, pretending to toss her into a swimming pool.

    “Yeah...” She grabbed her wine glass and stood abruptly, stubbing her toe on the coffee table. “A long time ago.” She hobbled toward the kitchen.

    “I hope you’re not refilling that glass...” Patrick called after her. He waited two seconds for a response, then walked away.

    She didn’t bother to turn on the lights. She just leaned against the counter, head in her hands, and sobbed. The picture in her mind was far more vivid than any she had been sifting through on the computer.

    He had just kissed her. Their first kiss. Their only kiss. It should never have happened. There could never be another. That look in his eyes - equal measures of incredible love and deep sadness. Of long-held hope and sudden resignation.

    She wondered if he was sleeping now. It was early. Not quite quarter to nine o’clock in Chicago. Was he dreaming? She wished she could join him there.

    “This” was playing in the other room. Some news editor’s idea of a cute musical tag for a lightweight human interest story. But it was far more than that to Becky.

    She would not go to bed. Not tonight. She would give this night to Aaron. She would stay awake and think only of him. And the words to that song...

           “all i wish,

            and all i want,

            and all i hope for

            just...

            this...”