Poppy pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to squeeze out the final image of the dream (his hands, reaching for her). It repeated a thousand times over as if reflected between two mirrors. Hands, teeth, dark, dark eyes. The same, but different every time.

One of her hands slid down toward the ache between her legs. She brought it up short, fisting the fabric of her sleep shirt, feeling like a fugitive in her own mind. All these years, and she had never reached the climax of the dream, as though the shame and disgust had rooted so deep in her subconscious, her mind wouldn’t let her finish.

She reached for her phone before she could stop herself. Once a year, she allowed herself a single morsel, one furtive, heart-pounding internet search when the craving became too much. She had trailed his progress over the last decade from the newspaper headlines to a realtor’s office to a marketing firm and now to an insurance agency, a different city every time.

This time, he had a profile.

This story was first published in 3Elements Literary Review on May 1, 2023.