Dinner rests heavily in my stomach, and the wine I greedily gulped during the meal gives me a feeling of deep contentment as I lounge on my end of the sofa, a mere leather cushion separating my husband and I.
The television drones on and on in the background. I only pay it half a mind as I hit the button on my Kindle to read the next page. My husband is watching a basketball game. I find the commercials more interesting than a bunch of sweaty men fighting over a ball and only occasionally look up to comment or laugh.
Ah, commercial time. I glance up from my Kindle screen to see a sporty blue car race across the television. “Oooh. I want that car.”
My husband laughs and shakes his head. “We’re not getting a BMW.”
I pout and return to my Kindle, keeping one eye on the television. That was some car. I can visualize myself in it, music blaring from speakers, the windows rolled down on a sunny day, my hair blowing in the breeze, the admiring glances…
The commercial changes. “Oooh. Look at that cute dress. I want that dress. It’s like a princess dress for adults.”
“You need to quit watching TV. You want everything.”
“Hey,” I say, insulted. “How much of that stuff do I rush out to buy?”
My husband gives me that look, the one that says “true, but I’m not going to agree with you out loud ‘cause I have my male pride.”
I only pay him half a mind. My overactive imagination is already visualizing myself wearing the pink princess dress for adults, driving my awesome blue BMW, music blaring from the speakers… “You know,” I turn to my husband once again, “I just honestly fantasize about that stuff. I can briefly imagine it, I’m wearing my awesome pink dress, I’m a size-two again, I permanently look twenty-five, and I’m out in my sexy blue BMW. All the fellows are turning their heads to look at me. I can’t even go to the grocery store without it being on TMZ!” I’m really getting into this crazy fantasy story of mine now and nearly jumping up and down on the sofa cushion. “And everywhere I go, people see me and they just happen to have one of my books with them and they ask me to autograph it, because I’m a New York Times Bestseller.” I nod and in my mind, I can see it. A little old lady is holding a pen out to me with a shaky hand. A camera light flashes. My blue BMW glints in the sun. I place a hand on my tiny hip…
I bring myself back to the present, to the sofa, to my husband’s guffaws. He’s laughing at me, but it’s not a mean laugh. Soon, I’m chuckling too.
“Watching TV gets my imagination going,” I confess with a grin. “I fantasize. Those are my silly fantasies. What’s your fantasy?”
I look at him expectantly, waiting to hear about how in his fantasy, he have ten motorcycles in the garage, a ’69 Camaro or two, and maybe Megan Fox on his arm. And I won’t take offense, because I know it’s just a fantasy. He’ll never meet Megan Fox.
But he shocks me, and I don’t see it coming, and for a second I’m speechless.
“I live it every day,” he says, so casually, and flips a page of his motorcycle magazine.
I blink. I feel all warm inside and have to blink again to ward away a tear.
Let Megan Fox have the blue BMWs and the TMZ fame. I have everything I need right here, just a sofa cushion away.