The Aspiring Dragon

Dear C, I dreamt of you the other night. It was a misty afternoon in some far away airport where I lived. you came through the gates, our eyes met, your face lightened up with a grin and I, I flew in the thin Autumn air and I flung myself into your arms. You were too tall, taller than I had recalled, you lifted me up, spinning fast, and there was nothing wrong with the world. You only stayed for a day, and I had to leave early on the morning before you left. My grandmama said goodbye to you for me, and that evening, I received a letter from J. she said you'd returned safely. You'd flown ten thousand miles that fast. And you'd told J about my grandmother, and about the apple trees outside my window, and about the smell of freshly washed sheets, and about the locks of my hair. Dear J. I dreamt of you last night. It was our reunion. We hugged tightly. You smelled of lavender, of wild mint, of curly fries freshly out of the pan, you smelled of tired late-night walks on ...

So if you see a young bartender, one cold winter night at a little pub in Georgia, don't think to yourself: oh, what a boring life he must live, tending a bar, all day every day. He might be a free spirit from somewhere far, traveling the world by bike for three years, working along the way to pay for the rest of the trip. He might camp by the sea in Turkmenistan, ride in the pouring rain in Viet Nam, and he might cross your path somewhere in the desert, tell you a story, and then disappear slowly, down the silk road, on his way to China. If you see a guy in a suit at the world cup, busy with paperwork before the final match, don't think low of him: heavens, how misfortunate he gotta be, he's busy with bureaucracy at the World Cup! No, he might have traveled wide and far, might have been on a road trip from the tip of Africa to Europe, and he might cross your path one warm afternoon in the hustle of a busy city's streets, tell you a story, and then disappear slowly into...