I collapse on the bed, barely kick off my shoes and climb under the blankets, fully dressed, before falling asleep.

I dream of Lisa.

She’s standing in a pool of light, as if she’s on a stage under a spotlight. She’s wearing the dress I last saw her in, lying in the coffin in the church. It’s her favorite dress, she called it her LBD. She wore it whenever we went on dates, because the sight of her in that dress made me plumb nuts. It just hugged her curves exactly right, wasn’t revealing but was certainly sexy. In death, it hurt to look at her in it.

In the dream, it hits me like every other time I saw her wear it on date night—a punch to the gut.

Skin is fair, a freckle here and there. The spotlight seems to illuminate those fine hairs on her forearms, which she hated but which for some odd reason were just so damned cute and endearing to me.

I take a step toward her, wanting to hold her. My feet are stuck to the floor, like I’m sunk to the calves in rubber cement. I can pull at them and they move a little but won’t come free.

“Lisa,” I say. “Wait.”

She smiles sadly at me. “Time to let me go, lover boy.” That was her pet name for me.

“No, I can’t.”

“You gotta, babe. Time to live.”

“I’m living.”

“Hell no, you ain’t. You’ve been living for me, lover boy. I’m dead. Time to live for you.”

She’s fading. Takes a step back. The pool of light fades.

“Lisa! Don’t go.” I want to cry, but I can’t. I never could.

She blows a kiss at me, from the shadows beyond the dimming pool of light. “I’ll always love you.”

“Lisa!”

“Time to let go, lover boy.”

Her words echo.

I wake up sweating, thirsty. Shaking. I haven’t dreamed of Lisa since right after she died. I used to have a recurring nightmare of her accident. I didn’t see it happen, but I saw one like it, once, before I met Lisa. A semi swerved, crossed the centerline, and hit a minivan head-on. I’d been a volunteer firefighter at the time, so I went to help. Wasn’t anything to help—and that sight stayed with me. My brain used that to supply a recurring nightmare of having been there when Lisa died, being on scene. Seeing her crushed and broken body…

Eventually those dreams stopped, and if I’ve dreamed anything since I haven’t remembered them. Now this.

Lisa, telling me to move on.

I stumble to the bathroom, turn on the faucet—the pipes jangle and pop and bang, and rust-colored water spurts out and then runs clear. Tastes like well water, but I grew up on well water so that’s fine.