12.08.00
The other night I had this dream that you and I were a nice German couple, complete with easy to read subtitles.
We were married and I was very pregnant, but not quite ready to pop.
You were so antsy and hyper about the baby that you wouldn't touch me, which made me mad, and I would shout harsh words at you in German, the subtitles that popped up beneath almost but not quite capturing my intent.
Then, we were sitting there, and I half-sneezed, half-coughed when the baby decided to stomp on my bladder, and I wet my pants a little. Embarassed, I jumped up from where I was sitting. You saw the wet spot on the chair, thought my water had broken and started running around like a chicken with your head cut off that we had to get to the hospital because the baby was coming.
I kept saying that it wasn't time, it wasn't time, but you didn't listen, and made me chase you around while you grabbed the overnight bag and called the hospital.
I completely blame this on the Vicar, Alice, and maybe Wim Wenders.
Your imaginary concern was sort of sweet, though.
