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I had this dream. I was being proposed to. In my high school gymnasium. It was all a bit unsettling. Like dreams sometimes are. Before you realize they’re dreams. And my suitor, my suitor says “Buffy, will you marry me?”

Before I can say ‘what’, before I can say ‘huh?’, this really hard-knocks, city centre priest shows up on the court. He speaks to my suitor. And I am shook.

“Good Grief,” he says. “Are you crazy, boy? Why does everyone insist on playing house these days? Why does everyone insist on getting married? Don’t do that.”

That’s what he says. This crazy priest. I’ve seen him before. I trust him implicitly. Father knows best.

“You’re right,” is all he says. Is all my suitor says. And then he leaves, just like that, and I am lost. Curled up in some big ball of separateness and floating in space. I feel like a star. Burnt out and collapsing in on itself.

Someone leads me away. I’m not part of the world I’m in. The world is a cafeteria now. Now, someone is feeding me chips.

My phone. It’s my life line. And when it rings, I think it’s him. And even though I have nothing to say, I listen anyway.

It’s Criss. My darling Criss. She is love. And she is comfort.

“Did he tell you what he did to me?” I think it. And don’t know if I say it.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s so sad. He sounded so different.”

And that was it. I woke up. It probably wasn’t immediately. It probably was six hours later. But it felt like immediately. Immediately. And I still felt lost.

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