Sweet dream

Hammocks.
I dreamed of hammocks.
You and me in a big mayan-style hammock under cedars.
The sky was blue and it was warm but there was a nice breeze blowing so we didn't mind being pressed together.
You read to me, from Winnie-the-Pooh.
Really.
I wormed my fingers under your shirt so I could rest my palm on your chest, feeling the beat of your heart and the vibration of your voice.
My legs were smooth against yours, my bare feet sliding against your calves.
I was wearing silk boxers and a plain white tee. And a smile.
"You never can tell with bees," you read.
"Or Kellies," I said, lifting my head from your shoulder.
"Or Kellies," you confirmed solemnly, and went back to reading.
I lowered my leg and pushed off against the grass.
Nestled back up against your shoulder and fell asleep to the rhythm of your voice and your fingers sliding though my hair.
Lulled by the swing of the hammock.
Sweet dream.