P opcorn scatters all over the floor as I stand up, wide awake and shaking my head to get rid of the beautiful dream.
Except the dream is still going. My heart is still pounding. I, somewhat of a neat freak, walk headlong through popcorn, smashing it into the carpet as I gasp like an asthmatic jogger.
That could be it. I’m having an asthma attack.
Except I don’t have asthma.
I could have had a sleep apnea episode—but... I don’t know what sleep apnea has to do with a racing heart and feeling like I’ll never be lonely again—like the princess is in the tower just out of sight, and I’m finally the knight who can save her!
I sit down hard on the dining room chair and put a hand to my chest. Fast, but in perfect rhythm.
Should I call 911? Seriously, should I? I feel...
There’s no word for this feeling. Blessed, happy, ecstatic, tingly, and confused.
Oh no. Someone laced your popcorn.
No, they didn’t, idiot. It was a fresh bag, sealed in a box, wrapped in plastic, and popped by your own microwave. There is no such thing as popcorn euphoria. Probably.
“ Come here. Come to me, my love. My one. My only.”
“Arh!” I leap back up and look around for the voice, my heart speeding up all over again.
I’m going insane.
No, I’m not. My name is Jared Lochenko, I’m thirty-eight, I live on Pine Crest Avenue, I drive a battered old Subaru SUV, my parents' names are Susan and Mikhail, and I can recite every president in order. Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Quincy again, Jackson, Van Buren...
Wait, that’s how they tell if you’ve had a stroke, not a mental breakdown.
“My love? I’m right here. Can’t you hear my soul’s song?”
“Yes! I can, but I don’t know where you are. Or who this is. Or if I need a straitjacket.” I put my hands in my hair and pace, ignoring the popcorn I’m grinding into the carpet.
Like a whip crack in my brain, I suddenly turn and look out the window, and there she is.
My beloved. My betrothed.
The beautiful blonde, willowy woman who owns Chloe’s Curiosities is in the window of her shop—even though it’s way too late to be open—throwing some green clippings out of the window and humming over her plants.
Her humming sets the beat of my heart. When her head lifts, her eyes meet mine across the tiny alley, and her mouth forms a frozen O of panic.
“Oh, no,” she gasps, but I can hear her plainly.
“My... My love?” I hazard, feeling giddy and shy all at once.
I never called Patsy “my love.” I never called her anything.
She would have laughed in my face. What if she laughs in my face?
Why am I calling my random neighbor, whom I’ve only talked to on trash day, “my love”?
This is clear proof that I’ve come unglued.
“Chloe?” I hazard. Her name is probably Chloe. Unless the original owner of the shop was Chloe, and she’s not Chloe. I put a hand over my heart and wish it would slow down. I’m not very athletic. I’m going to be all flushed and sweaty when I meet my bride.
Bride? Bride??
“Yes, my love. Bride. You heard my call, and you’ve come to claim me.” The little voice in my head lilts along, answering my question. That voice is not my own.
“Signs of psychosis. Schizophrenia? Auditory hallucination?”
“You’re okay?” The terrified-looking woman asks, a trembling hand pointing at me.
“I’m not sure,” I confess.
“You’re not in a coma.”
“No. I’m not.” I blink and look down at my body, my outstretched arms. “I didn’t consider that as an option,” I muse. I flex my fingers and wriggle my toes in their thick white socks. “Um. I am definitely not in a coma.”
“Oh, my God. You’re a sensitive,” Chloe claps both hands to her mouth and backs away from the window.
“I guess? I mean, I’ve always been bigger, even as a kid, so I got teased about my weight, and then when I got glasses in sixth grade, that sucked for a while, but I would say I’m over it.
Mostly. So... A little sensitive about some things?
Is that bad?” I’m so lost. Why is this woman making me spill my guts like a fisherman with a fresh catch?
Does she like a sensitive man? Do they turn her off? Why is she telling me this?
“No, no, no. Not that kind. I... It’s all a misunderstanding. Just say no, and it’s over.”
“No to what?” I demand, wishing whoever drugged my popcorn or zapped my brain had left some kind of tutorial or owner’s manual, something like “Your Handy, Dandy Guide to Losing Your Marbles.” That would have been nice.
“Wh-what do you think I want?” Chloe demands, head cocked, eyes wide.
She’s so beautiful like that. What’s more, I can feel what she wants.
To be happy. Loved. Not alone. Content.
She wants her other half, and she doesn’t think she can find it.
Same here, my sweet green angel.
Hold on, green??
“Why are you green now?” I yelp. “Not like grassy green, but pale, soft buttermint green? Not like I mind! On you, it looks good. Beautiful. Gorgeous!”
Oh, God. Even when I’m dreaming—if I’m dreaming—I can’t flirt. Or date. Definitely can’t get married.
“But your heart is already mine, my love.” The little voice insists.
“Stay there. I’m coming over.”