Perusing a dusty Post Card Row fixer upper I could never afford, she arrived first and sat in a chair across from me—looking around expectantly—and within half-hour he was there and they’d hit it off, fingers touching then finally outlining the hand of the other, speaking sex into the air with quivering coffee shop etiquette.

And the molding is period, thrashed/painted purple and red, mold has taken over, and 3.5 million dollars of dusty floors was built in 1900 and my iPad flips dreams under fingers, and he leans over to whisper with mouth navigating to her ear, and there’s a soft laugh.

The antique stove sits on buckled linoleum floors, and the hardwoods—probably original—stretch East to west, edged by bay windows catching afternoon sun then fingers, fingers, to the knee, to the thigh, fingers tiptoeing.

And a song I haltingly-recognize makes words float

Take a dream on a Sunday

Take a life, take a holiday

Take a lie, take a dreamer

Dream, dream, dream, dream, dream along

Dreamer, by Supertramp, and I sit next to a coffee date, not remembering why I ever gave them up, my fingers onto buttons, faces flushed, trousers on the floor of bedrooms, dreamers sitting cross legged in the western sun of fixers tracing herself into the history of dusty floors.

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