Page 8 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“If you lend me the book, I promise to return it. I’m not a thief,” Gabriel said, his eyes meeting mine. Soulful eyes. Bedroom eyes. Long lashes and sex hair.
This guy had heartbreak written all over him.
But I wasn’t a thief either, so I quickly averted my gaze.
He was Annika’s boyfriend, which made him off-limits for all eternity.
Fine by me. My mystery boy was still out there, and at this point, no other guy could ever compare.
He was not a musician. He would not be rude when we finally met. And he would absolutelynotbe sleeping with my best friend.
No, he was actively searching for the girl who got away.Me.I was that girl with honey brown hair and smudged eyeliner. And just last week hadn’t Xavier given me makeup tips for accentuating my full lips?
When our paths collided atexactly the right time, under ideal circumstances, I would thank fate for sending him my way.
Hey, Fate, this would be the perfect time. I’m very single. Very available. Ready and eager to meet the love of my life.
Excerpt from the notebook found by Cleo Babington
in Tompkins Square Park
on June 17, 1990
6/9/90 East Village, NYC
Spoke to Eddie today. He’s still out in LA selling his soul to false gods but he can’t understand why I left.
“Kat keeps asking about you,” he said. “She’s still in love with you.”
“Kat loved the idea of me,” I said. “She never really knew the real me.”
“Who does, man? You know what it is? You get all these cool chicks falling for you because you’re like this tragic hero from a fucking novel…” I heard him snap his fingers. “You’re like Holden Caulfield.”
I was nothing like Holden Caulfield, but Eddie wasn’t a big reader and I could tell he was proud of himself for coming up with that so I let it go.
Eddie asked me what’s so great about NYC. I told him that it feels like I’ve been hooked up to a power grid and all my synapses are firing on all cylinders, the adrenaline rushing through my veins and crash-landing in the center of my chest where my heart thrashes against my rib cage fighting to break free and dance a drunken tango.
The Lower East Side is where it’s at, baby.
Unlike LA, that industry town without a soul or a conscience, the LES still has a beating pulse and opens its arms to theweirdos and outcasts and artists and creative minds of our generation.
There’s no plastic fantastic bullshit, no posers or industry suits or fame-seeking junkies screaming, Look at me, I’m so fucking beautiful, put me in your movie! Put me in your bubble gum pop band with your slick, manufactured, fake bullshit, overproduced commercial jingles so everyone can see me on MTV!
The East Village embraces originality, fucking demands it, and for the first time in my life, I’ve found a place where I belong.
Eddie told me I was going mad and asked where he could buy whatever I’ve been smoking.
After we hung up, I wandered the streets searching for the girl who got away…
An artist with a portfolio hanging from the strap over her shoulder, a tube (of canvases?) sticking out of it.
Are you a reader, Jane? Tolstoy, Rilke, Ayn Rand, Baudelaire…Kerouac? In my dreams, you speak fluent French with a British accent and read me poetry you’ve written in a Moleskine notebook just like Hemingway’s.
Your jokes are dirty, your soul is pure, and your heart is engraved with battle scars from all the lovers and false prophets who have let you down.
I only saw you once and now you haunt my dreams…maybe I really am going mad…
But aren’t all artists touched with madness?
