I'm lying in my bed, daydreaming, reading a book, or something of a similar nature.
Suddenly, I hear the faint rustle of movement outside of my door. No knocking- just the presence of a perfect stranger.
When I know for sure that they have gone, I open the door- only to find a white, nondescript envelope taped to my door. It is addressed to me, "Lindsay."
Heart beating in my ears, I open it. Inside is a perfectly typed note, a mere sentence, in antiquated typography.
"Meet me at Mayfair, 6 o'clock." The art building. My favorite one, full of character and Impressionistic ghosts.
A thousand ideas and a handful of names run through my mind. The anonymity burns me.
I go, stomach full of cartwheels, head held high. I sit on the wraparound porch.
Cross legs, fold hands, uncross legs, fiddle with phone, play with hair.
Minutes fly by, and my excitement flutters away with them.
I feel stupid, cheated.
I wait, but you- the stranger- you never come.
This dream has come to me at least four times over the past couple of months. I honestly do not know how to interpret it. Maybe it is my hopeful subconscious, or an omen in disguise. Whatever it may be, it never changes or varies. The stranger remains a constant reminder. Perhaps it has no meaning at all. A blissful, meaningless illusion.