In my dream, my husband is a woman. Not a beautiful woman with whom, despite my being straight, I can imagine myself in bed. He is a male-looking woman, resembling his reality male-self too much to attract me as someone from my own sex. In fact, I only know he is a woman because of the energy (s)he radiates and the curve of his/her chest.
Next, I find myself examining my own body, hoping, perhaps, I have changed gender as well, which isn’t the case.
My husband stands on stage and sings her heart out in a scene stolen from an early Lynch movie: dark bar-theater, red curtains, sparse audience. (S)he sings and sings, convincingly, and I am invaded by love, swept off my feet, in defiance of everything.
When I open my eyes and see my husband’s head, half-buried in the pillow, relaxed in sleep, I feel like the luckiest person in the world.