I like it best when I dream that Zoli is coming home. He props his bicycle against the wall and doesn’t ride it any more that day. I putter around to make things tidy and to make Zoli happy with me. He slips behind my back, I pretend not to notice him, and suddenly he licks in my ear. The meal cooks on the stove, I cook, but I’m always afraid that the soup boils over. Please let me go, I tell Zoli, but he doesn’t, not for anything in the world. I don’t mind. I’ll make soup in my other dream, I dream. Zoli caresses me, and he promises that he will never argue with me. He cuddles me and kisses my nose.
But when I wake up, that’s the worst. Because I can’t see Zoli’s bicycle anywhere.
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