![It Was A Dream; [She] Was a Dream](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/579fa3912994ca0eff850271/1516915872639-PUKF0S01DFN34TIMXI4P/sleeping+woman.jpg)
It Was A Dream; [She] Was a Dream
And that tuft of hair on her mound of Venus that surrounded her lips and teased itself into a perfect curl with the perfect color. She was my ideal.
Then I saw my body, scarred — from the cesarean, fat, lined, wrinkled. It was mine. I heard a woman in the background say, Roberta’s breasts are too large. And it’s just not pretty.
You see, the people in my dreams talk, and they are not always kind.
When Ali, Casey, and I were in college down in central Illinois, we lived in this great place just a block off campus. It was situated at the top of a hill overlooking the town smack dab in the middle of Greek Row, snuggled between the Beta and SAE houses—a modest, three-bedroom house with a front porch and back patio, and yard that made it ideal for barbecues and other themed or not themed parties.