Don't Be In Love

by Liana Cincotti

“You said you weren’t sleeping either.” “That’s not a question.” She continued, “You said you understood having nightmares. So what’s keeping you up at night?” “Why do you want to know?” “Can’t answer my question with another question,” she rebutted. “I imagine all the paintings in my home being stolen or lathered in peanut butter beyond repair.” “Are you ever serious?” She narrowed her eyes. “Some would say damage to artwork is the most serious enigma of them all.” She exhaled in annoyance and turned for the door— I caught her elbow and stopped her. “Fine, fine.” I took a breath. “You.” “Me?” “Yes, you.” She froze. “What about me?” “I dream about you.” She stared at me in disbelief. “You’re really going to make me say it again?” Her eyes darted across my face. She didn’t believe me. But she wanted to. Or else her elbow wouldn’t be in my hand still. “Yes,” she repeated. With the slightest force, I tugged on her arm. She obliged, taking a step. Her eyelashes were still wet, pulled into sharp points like the tip of a detailed paintbrush. I let my hand travel down the length of her arm before stopping at her fingertips, holding on. “You keep me up every night. I dream about August. And I dream about the night before Halloween when we kissed. And I dream about seeing you kiss someone else. I dream about things that haven’t even happened.” The tightness in my throat made it feel as if I just ran five miles. I was capturing air from the contained space to keep from saying anyt...