A Dream of Us

The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of our duplex, casting soft patterns across the hardwood floor of the ground-floor hall. I drove her to the hospital, where she worked as a doctor, her presence an elegant blend of grace and purpose. My hand rested gently on her thigh as we navigated the quiet streets, the warmth of her skin a silent comfort beneath my palm. She glanced over, her dark eyes narrowing playfully. "Focus on the road, love," she said, her voice teasing but firm. I grinned, leaning slightly toward her. "I bought an automatic just so I could do this," I quipped, giving her thigh a gentle squeeze. She laughed, a light, melodic sound that filled the car. "You’re impossible," she said, shaking her head, but she placed my hand back where it was, her fingers lingering over mine. "Don’t get us into an accident before my shift even starts."

We pulled up to the hospital, its glass facade glinting in the early sun. I leaned over and kissed her forehead, her skin warm and faintly scented with jasmine. "What do you want for dinner?" I asked, my voice soft. Her bubbly smile broke free, lighting up her face. "Gobi Aloo," she replied, then tilted her head, eyes glinting. "With extra spice this time, okay? Don’t skimp like last week." I chuckled, nodding. "Deal, but you’re helping with the parathas." She rolled her eyes playfully. "You just want an excuse to get flour all over me." I pulled her into a hug, holding her a moment longer than usual, savouring the way her arms wrapped around me. "Be safe," I whispered. She squeezed me back, murmuring, "Always am."

After dropping her off, I drove to the university where I taught literature. The day unfolded in a familiar rhythm: lectures on Keats and Woolf, discussions with students about metaphor and meaning, and a stack of papers to grade. During a break, a colleague asked, "You seem distracted today. Everything alright?" I smiled, brushing it off. "Just thinking about dinner plans." But in truth, my thoughts kept drifting to her: the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the quiet confidence she carried into the operating room. I imagined her now, moving through the hospital with purpose, her hands steady as she tended to her patients.

I returned home earlier than she did, as was our routine, to our cosy duplex. The ground floor housed the kitchen and a spacious hall, where sunlight poured through large windows, illuminating the bookshelves we’d filled together: her medical journals neatly stacked beside my poetry collections. The kitchen was my sanctuary, a place where I could lose myself in the rhythm of cooking. I started on the Gobi Aloo, the familiar scent of cumin and turmeric filling the air as I chopped cauliflower and potatoes—the act of cooking grounded me, a quiet meditation that tethered me to the life we shared.

As I kneaded the dough for parathas, the front door clicked open. She was home. I opened the door, my hands dusted with flour, and she threw herself into my arms, her laughter infectious. "Carry me," she demanded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. I hesitated, glancing at my flour-covered hands. "I’m a mess, you know," I said, holding up my hands as evidence. She pouted, undeterred. "I don’t care. Carry me, or I’ll make you regret it." With a laugh, I scooped her up, her legs dangling as she clung to me like a koala. "You’re ridiculous," I said, stumbling into the hall. She grinned, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. "And you love it." We settled on the plush rug we’d picked out together at a local market, her head resting on my shoulder for a moment.

"Let's take a bath," she suggested, her voice soft but laced with excitement. "Only if you stop stealing all the hot water," I teased, standing up and offering her my hand. She swatted it away, laughing. "I do not steal it. I just... appreciate it more." We climbed the stairs to the first floor, where our bathroom and bedroom awaited. The bathroom was our haven, with its clawfoot tub and candles we’d light on quiet evenings. As we filled the tub with warm water, the steam rising in gentle curls, she leaned against the sink, watching me. "You’re getting better at this cooking thing," she said. "That Gobi Aloo smelled amazing from the driveway," I smirked, tossing a towel at her. "High praise from the spice queen herself." We sank into the water, her back against my chest, the day’s fatigue melting away. "Rough day?" I asked, running my fingers through her hair. She sighed, leaning into me. "Long, but good. Saved a patient today. You?" I shrugged. "Just trying to make Wordsworth sound exciting to a room of sleepy undergrads."

After the bath, wrapped in soft towels, I carried her to the kitchen counter on the ground floor. She perched there, her damp hair framing her face, her arms wrapped around my neck. "Tell me about your day," I said, stirring the sabzi. She launched into a story about a difficult surgery that went well, her hands gesturing animatedly. "And then, right when we thought we’d lose him, the monitor stabilised. It was like a miracle." She paused, her eyes softening. "What about you? Any student epiphanies today?" I grinned, adding a pinch of garam masala to the curry. "One kid compared Ode to a Nightingale to a breakup song. Not wrong, honestly." She laughed, her voice bright. "You’re turning them into poets yet." Our conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by her laughter and my teasing remarks about her endless medical jargon.

Dinner was simple but deeply satisfying. We sat at the small table in the hall, the parathas warm and golden, the Gobi Aloo fragrant and perfectly spiced. "You nailed the spice this time," she said, taking a bite and closing her eyes in approval. "Told you I’d deliver," I replied, winking. We shared stories, our voices mingling with the soft clink of plates. She told me about a colleague’s quirky habit of humming during rounds, and I recounted a student’s passionate defence of a controversial novel. "You’re too patient with them," she said, shaking her head. "You’d be the same," I countered. "You never give up on your patients." She smiled, reaching for my hand across the table. "We’re a good team, aren’t we?"

After dinner, we took a walk under the stars, the cool night air brushing against our skin. The neighbourhood was quiet, save for the occasional chirp of crickets. We held hands, our fingers intertwined. "Do you think we’ll always be this happy?" she asked, her voice soft as she looked up at the sky. I squeezed her hand. "As long as you keep demanding Gobi Aloo, I think we’re set." She laughed, nudging me with her shoulder. "You’re such a sap." Back home, we retreated to our separate tasks. She spread her case files across the hall’s coffee table, her brow furrowed in concentration as she reviewed patient charts. I sat nearby, preparing lecture notes, occasionally stealing glances at her, marvelling at the focus in her eyes.

Later, we climbed the stairs to our bedroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows on the walls. She began recounting her day again, the medical terms flowing effortlessly: phrases like "myocardial infarction" and "postoperative care" that I only half understood. "You know," I said, interrupting her, "you could be reading me a grocery list, and I’d still be hanging on every word." She laughed, swatting my arm. "You’re such a liar. You’re just waiting for me to stop talking so you can kiss me." I grinned, leaning closer. "Guilty." On impulse, I kissed her, catching her mid-sentence. She froze for a moment, surprised, then melted into the kiss, her hands pulling me closer. Our fingers intertwined, and the world outside faded away, leaving only the warmth of her breath, the softness of her lips, the quiet intensity of our connection.

But then, the alarm rang, sharp and jarring, pulling me from the dream. I awoke in my empty bed, the morning light creeping through the curtains of my small apartment. The warmth of her presence lingered in my mind, vivid and achingly real. I had never dated her, never shared a duplex with her, never cooked Gobi Aloo while she sat on the counter. Yet, in that dream, it felt as though we had always been together, our lives woven seamlessly into one.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the morning light growing brighter. The details of the dream clung to me: the scent of jasmine, the weight of her in my arms, the sound of her laughter as we bantered. Was it just a dream, or was it a glimpse into a life I longed for? A life where we built a home together, where our days were filled with laughter and love, where the ordinary moments felt extraordinary because they were ours.

I rose from bed, the ache of her absence settling in my chest. As I brewed coffee, I wondered if I’d see her again in my dreams, or if, perhaps, I’d find the courage to make that life real one day.