I Hear Southern Bells

The last thought I had before falling asleep was someone should turn on the heat in the house. My roommates, in an effort to “conserve energy and save the environment” (meaning save a penny) have boycotted central heating. Living in the basement means I get to experience lake effect Chicago lows more than anyone else in the house. Whatever. I always manage to fall asleep.
When I blink it feels like bathroom in the morning after a scalding shower. Its humid and I can hardly breathe. Not only am I sweating through my Oxford shirt, but also my white Tom Wolfian suit. Things are not right: I don’t own a single suit and I should not be sweating unless my roommates have all suddenly undergone compassion. One of my roommates counts his Ritz crackers in an effort to make sure no one eats them: I’m not expecting a random act of kindness anytime soon.
A young lady in bright whites comes next to me, twirling her umbrella and batting her eyelashes. Granted, I look stunning, but I like to think I always look this good. Such behavior being exhibited towards me is unheard of unless I initiate it.
“Isn’t she pretty?” she asks with a long Southern drawl. It could take days for her to talk more than a sentence towards me.
I look dumbfounded for a while. I haven’t even adjusted myself to the surroundings: unending Easter grass hills curving as subtly as conversation. There’s a white gazebo where a crowd has gathered. Not just any crowd – it seems to be made up entirely of females. All are adorned in white hats with white umbrellas and have a figure a sculptor would love to shape. Ah, this is undoubtedly a dream. My dream. I smile, thinking I have finally outdone myself. A dream with at least a hundred southern belles – creative, yes.
“Not as pretty as you,” I continue our conversation, grinning. A terrible pickup line, yes, but this is a dream, a fantasy, I can be as corny as I want.
And then she slaps me.
“You! You!” she exclaims.
“Me! Me!” I counter back.
“It is entirely improper for you to be making eyes on a lowly bridesmaid at your own reception. Well I never!”
Perhaps I should not be describing this as dream. Perhaps nightmare is closer to the truth. I reevaluate the situation: I am in a suit, sweating, with girls who I apparently cannot hit on. I try taking off the suit, but the buttons seem fastened stiff. Next, I attempt to remove my pants. I have never had this problem before: they won’t come off. After rummaging through my pockets, I find a ballpoint pen and attempt to rip the fabric. Hard as I try, nothing happens. The pants stay on immune to tears and blue ink stains. Amazing.
I see another white gowned girl making her way to me from the gazebo. She stamps angrily over the soil and wears a countenance that terrifies me. I feel like running but assume that my legs wouldn’t go for the idea. I stand in place and wait for this peeved (albeit beautiful) woman come my way.
“Who are you?!” she demands.
“Your husband?” I half ask, half declare. I assume I’m not quite welcomed here.
“The hell you are! My husband is tall. And handsome. And he doesn’t have that ridiculous accent you do. And, he does not, I repeat, does not, hit on the bride’s sister.”
Her points sting a bit. Tall, I am not, but handsome, let me at least believe I am. And the accent is great.
“Then who am I?” I sincerely ask. I try futilely to take the coat off once more.
“I am asking you that question mister. You are ruining my dream.”
“Your dream? I thought this was my nightmare,” I try explaining.
“Most certainly not. Look at the attention to detail.” She waves her hand to show the scope and elaboration of the wedding reception. The chairs are pearl colored and look delicate enough for angels to sit on. All the women have rosy cheeks. She’s right - a lot of attention has been paid to detail. This is definitely not my dream.
I look her in the eye - her brown hair is swooped across her face and reveals only one of her eyes (which looks like hazelnut coffee).
I sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. I was worried for a while what kind of dream I was having. At first I was proud of myself – hundreds of women, all in white, me looking charming as always. Yet they seemed prone to my general Don Juanness. I figured it was certainly a nightmare.”
She slaps me, harder than the last woman.
“What was that for?”
She removes her hand from the white glove and holds it, tenderly.
“For being a pig. And ruining my dream. Now get out.”
I laugh a bit. “I would, if I could. But I’m stuck in this suit. What makes you think I’ll be able to escape this dream. Your dream.”
She grins and pulls at the sleeve of my suit. It submits to her and is immediately ripped off. My pale undeveloped arm just hangs there at my side.
“What was that for?”
“Just cause.” For a southern girl, she seems awfully improper.

We sit for a while, trying to figure things out. Hours must pass. We come to the realization that dream time does not coincide with sleep time. Something must happen in this dream in order for us to escape it – something terribly exciting that one wants desperately to know the conclusion to so badly that they wake up.
“We could get married,” I suggest.
“I thought we decided on something exciting,” she protests. “What’s the fun in ‘they live happily-ever-after?”
“You view me as repulsive, right?”
“Correct.”
“Beast gets the beauty. Or the belle in this case. Think about it.”
She bites her bottom lip in the cutest way, like the harder she tugs at it, the more profound her thoughts will be.
"Maybe I’ll wake up from fright of having to kiss you,” she jokes. It’s this thing we have – I say I’m repulsive, she agrees.

I get to the altar. The priest rambles forever – this is a proper wedding. Soon enough, I’m hearing the words, “You may kiss the bride,” and, with my weak revealed arm, I unveil the bride and wink at her. I kiss her.
Nothing happens.
We looked perplexed at one another. I raise my eyebrows; she mouths “I don’t get it.”
And as confusingly as the whole thing started, it stops. I wake up in my bed shivering. All is normal.

In the kitchen as I prepare my bowl of cereal, one of my roommates looks at me.
“What are you grinning about?” he asks. It’s true, I am smiling.
“Oh, I think I might be married.”
He looks expectedly confused, then responds, “Listen man, I’ll talk to the other guys about turning the heat on. If you’re hallucinating and crap, we can spare a few extra bucks a month for your health.”