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It's the same dream, over and over.

It's finally time to buy a house together. We've been living with your parents for a few years now, saving money. It's a good thing we get along so well with them. The deposit is saved and we've started to look at -

But I already own a house. I bought it with him, years ago. I just don't remember where -

We're looking in the southern suburbs, somewhere sensible. There's a place -

The address, I can't remember the address. We only lived there for a few months. It was our first home. Where is it? I'm in the right suburb but I can't be sure which street. I'm getting turned around, it's been so long and so many things have changed. Did the neighbours have a black garage door? Wasn't there a tree there?

It would be much easier to buy the new house if I sold the old house. I could add the money from the sale to the deposit for the new house.

I'm driving down street after street, peering at every house. None of them are quite right. Our house was on a curve in the road, and was built of white bricks. It had a gate at the driveway, and I was happy there. I loved the kitchen. We had wooden stools at the bench, for friends to sit and talk while I cooked pizza.

Now that I've allowed myself to remember the longing is back. My fingers stretch over the steering wheel, hoping instead of vinyl to feel the smooth polished wood of the kitchen bench.

My fingers are hoping, instead of vinyl, to feel his soft blue shirt, and under it his smooth skin, warm from the sun.

I pick up the phone to call him. "It's been a year," I say. "Can we just sort our shit out and get back together? I miss you."

I reach for my phone. His number isn't there. There is a bitter taste in the back of my mouth as I realise it's a lot longer than a year.

I wake up, shivering. 





I'm driving through the suburb and the street curves just right -



not dead yet

happy birthday, old thing

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