I dream of other men, even though I’m with you. Even as I sit here, in the same room with you, my thoughts are on what could have been, what we could have been, and what had changed me all those years ago.

I’m not the same woman that I was once upon a time, dreaming of my happily ever ending. I’m not the same woman as I was when we first met, when I thought you could fulfill my every fantasy, when I thought I could live with the illusion that you were something — someone — else.

And though I go to bed with you at night and plan a different future than one I had imagined, I still dream as if I were still that teenager with the world to conquer and love to offer.

I dream that secret admirers leave tulips on my car. You once bought me a single white rose from a roadside stand. I still have it, pressed in a journal that romanticized our love story. I dreamed that one day we would take it out and read it together, but now I keep it hidden away in a corner of the closet. That’s another man, not you.

In the evening as I prepare dinner, I imagine another man wrapping his arms around me, pressing his lips against my neck as I lean back and cherish his scent, the feeling of safety enveloping me. I dream of him turning me to face him, stroking my cheek, leaning in to kiss me, and I scold him playfully and tell him to wait until after dinner, daring to hope that he won’t listen to my protests. I dream of him stepping into place beside me to chop vegetables and fix ingredients as we sneak sideways longing glances at each other, hiding smiles, relishing the spiced aromas and visionary medley of color.

I dream of music with men other than you, laughter filling snow-fallen streets as my heels follow his rhythmic pattern while we cling to each other, taking his arm, embracing his hand as we walk home from a museum or gallery or concert. I dream of the song in his voice, the lightness in his step as he lifts my hand to his lips, as if it’s everyday, as if it’s second nature.

I dream about making love to other men — fueled by passion and desire, a tangle of sweat and sheets. Afterwards, he traces patterns on my skin as we talk about life and love and longing. There is poetry in his words, a song in his smile and we lay there for hours until the sun peeks through the cracks in the curtains, and when it spills light onto the bed, we make love again.

I dream of him, a fire burning in the woodstove, sneaking glances at each other over the brims of our books. The world is quiet except for our breathing — slow, steady — and the turning of the pages — smooth, deliberate. He’s across the room and yet we’re completely in sync, our minds in two separate worlds, and yet right there, together. Silence is comfortable, solitude is close.

I dream of him, wishing it were you instead.

But I’m not with him. And you’re not him. And as the television blares cheers and commentary, I watch from a chair on the other side of the room as you offer your own criticism against the players in your game. Your eyes never leave the screen, and as a new car commercial comes on, you briefly reach into your pants, past the fabric of your boxers.

You turn to look at me, catch me watching you, and you pull your hand out quickly, rest it on the back of the couch.

“What are you reading?” You ask, and I can’t tell if you’re really interested or not.

I hold up the book for you to see, and your eyes flick from the TV to the cover to my face and then back, and you nod slowly and sit up and lean forward as the game returns.

I settle back into the cushions and hold the book back up; my eyes are on the words, but I’m dreaming of them again, those other men, that other life, that other me.

“I love you.”

I look up, see you watching me, a boyish half-smile, eyes speaking in earnest, in truth. I start to smile, but in that moment you’re gone. You turn back to the TV, jump to your feet, hands in the air.

“Touchdown!”

But my smile stays and my heart lifts and for a second I’m that teenager, accepting the rose from your outstretched hand with a blush and a smile and a kiss.

And suddenly I’m no longer dreaming of that other life, no longer dreaming of those other men.

I’m with you again.

And that’s enough.