Rose Petal Pillows

Last night, I screwed up and failed to call Boyfriend on the way home from work. Not a big deal, save that I made a promise to just moments before disregarding it. Again, not such a big deal, save for the part where I was on the phone with Ex-Husband at that time. I offered some lame excuses that Boyfriend is too smart to fall for and which probably left him feeling even worse. Fair enough.

So I get home expecting an episode of him being hurt and me attempting to make amends. But instead of arguing, I came home and proceeded to get some of the best, best, best action ever. I dunno how I deserved it, but I took it. THEN - on top of that, Boyfriend went to go get milk and brought me back a perdy flower. I love perdy flowers. I should be thoughtless more often.

So I take a petal from the perdy flower and put it under my pillow. When I was a kid, there was this old-wives tale that when you put a rose petal under your pillow, you dream about the man you will marry.

This is the dream that followed:

At home, Boyfriend is filled with concern and begging me to stop packing. I admonish that all will be well. I am off to Iraq to interview bad guys. Insurgents or terrorists or someone else who is very dangerous. It signals the kick-off of an obviously successful journalism career. "Hush Love, I will be fine." I kiss his forehead like his concerns were those of a child fearing imaginary monsters. "Please don't do this Lex, it's not worth it."

So I get to Iraq and team up with another woman, also a reporter. Clear sky and daylight. We stand around surrounded by a group of local women. Blending in, I wait for word from my informant so we can know where to meet. Dusk falls. Suddenly, a large group of marching men head in our direction and the women begin to scream. Someone warns that I should clear the path and find shelter. Something about our presence not being wanted after sunset. Along with the others, I begin to run.

Tripping, I fall to the ground and my purse spills open. A local boy runs over, grabbing a piece of paper that had fallen to the ground. This piece of paper contains the list of names and numbers of my secret contacts. All of which are dangerous. And none of which want to be found out. The boy, no more than 10, turns to me. "You shouldn't have this." Young eyes stare at me with a strange mixture of fright and opportunity. I reach out, offering food I had in the purse. He looks to my hand, then up at my face. Snatching the offering, he runs. Drops the paper. I consider eating the evidence of my high-crimes. I decide against it. The boy is sated.

Later, I am home and asleep in my bed with Boyfriend. Waken but groggy, I see the shadowy outline of a man walking towards me. Come to punish. He knows my list is no longer secret. No time to move. He straddles me and pushes a pillow against my face. Slowly being smothered, I fight the urge to give in and lose consciousness.

At this point, Boyfriend woke me, held me close and repeated over and over that I was ok. He later told me that I was breathing quick and heavy.

Freaky.

The freakiest part is not knowing: Who will I marry? Boyfriend, or an Iraqi insurgent?