My novels originate from dreams, and I thought it fitting that I share it with you. With barely an eye open, I wake up and start writing, so please forgive any punctuation or grammar mistakes. You are reading these words as they first came to me.

The gas station dream:

I’m dropped off at a gas station by some people I'm traveling with. They didn't want to drive me home. They said it was too far, and this was easier. I call a friend to pick me up. 

While I’m waiting, I comment to myself, “This place is kind of a dump.”

Meanwhile, a guy comes out and says, “Don't let's Ma hear you say that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He invites me inside since it’s hot. The interior isn’t what I expected. It’s unique. Clean white walls. Lots of wood.

The guy is good-looking—sandy blond hair, green eyes.

“Looks like I've had a bad day,” the guy says.

Then there’s this instant connection. It’s like he has me all figured out and maybe knows me better than I know myself. It’s a strong feeling, like when you have a conversation with someone for the first time and you instantly connect.

I stare at him. It's like he's another one of my angels. That random person placed in your life that changes your trajectory without even knowing it.

My ride comes.

I ask the guy’s name. He tells me, but I can’t remember what he said.

“Can I have your cell number?” I ask him.

“It isn’t worth it. We can’t be to each other what never was and what never could be. (I can’t remember his name, but I remember this? LOL)

“You don’t know that.”

I write my cell number down anyway. He might regret his choice and have no way to reach out to me.

As I leave, my heart aches painfully at the idea of never seeing him again. I don’t want to leave.

“Why can’t we be together?” I ask, then wake up.  

It takes a full day and a half to let go of the sense of loss for a person I’ve never met.