There was one day when I stopped dreaming about a boy who’d take me to swanky restaurants and on opulent vacations and buy me an enormous house with balconies and generally lavish me with expensive gifts and started dreaming about maybe one day having enough counter space for a waffle iron and a medium-sized closet and maybe, in my wildest dreams, my own washer and dryer. And there was one day when I stopped dreaming about steamy bedroom scenes and started dreaming about a different sort of bedroom scene altogether. I just wanted to find a boy who’d lie around in bed with me, reading books.
So here we are, me and Ted, our legs woven together, my head on his bicep. Occasionally he’ll pause and kiss me on my hair before I feel a page of his magazine brush past my forehead. I’ve swiped his Harry Potter, which rests against my forearm and his. I curl my toes against his leg, and he finds my foot with his. Who knew toes could feel so nice?
Yes, here we are, full from brunch, stripped down to our underwear with the box fan on high-- a vision of nerd porn straight from my wildest fantasies.