Someday I'm going to marry a piano playing boy. We'll have a grand piano in the bedroom of our loft apartment, which will overlook a busy city street. Each night (well, early morning, knowing me) as the moonlight shines in on our soft, comfy bed, he will play his songs for me until I fall asleep.

After I fall asleep, he will crawl in bed beside me and spoon me until the morning. The warmth of our bodies will have the power to melt the coldest, most unfeeling heart. In the morning, I will wake up next to him and smile. He will bring me my cereal and we'll stay in bed all morning reading the newspaper and hating on Cynthia Tucker.

He will not be scared of commitment, of affection, of bears, or of anything. He will understand the pain of loving someone who won't (or can't) love you back. He will know exactly what I'm talking about when I say boys are trouble: the whole thing is a seemingly unending hassle, but the rewards are well worth the effort. He will believe me when I tell him that this is real. When he is upset and I say something comforting, he will feel better.

He will understand the difference between a romantic candlelit dinner (sweet and practical) and the 'one thousand votives all over the bedroom' dealie from all those soap operas (silly and ridiculous). He will be able to pinpoint exactly when John Grisham lost his way and became unreadable. And he'll look the other way when I declare my undying love for Kelly Ripa.

I'll be able to deliver a monologue with one look. Silently, he'll know exactly what I'm thinking. He'll finish my sentences for me and it'll be like we're sharing a brain. We will compliment one another perfectly. He will dress me up in fancy clothes and I will edit his correspondence for grammar.

Together we'll be unstoppable, like superheroes but with better taste in underwear. People will whisper with awe as we walk down the street. We'll be regular rock stars, famous for our perfect relationship. Other couples will be insanely jealous of our good fortune. People will whisper behind our backs because it helps them to feel better about themselves.

I'll never have to worry about his emotional state. We won't have to concern ourselves with a millisecond-by-millisecond breakdown of each of our encounters. There will be no need for the complications of an open relationship. We'll have everything we need spread out in front of us.

We will never worry about money. We will be artists who will live by our wits, accepting the occasional paying job just to keep the lights on. If we miss an electric bill or two, we can always skip town and ride the Eurail to wherever it takes us. I've always wanted to see Europe and he has too. When I overpack, he will volunteer to trade bags with me and that's when I'll know that it's love.

He will know by memory everything about my body. We will fit together like two puzzle pieces, separated at birth but reunited at last. The connection will be electric and the sex will be unspeakably wonderful, nothing short of magic. Neither of us will ever run out of surprises. Each day will be like Christmas, with new, exciting mysteries to be revealed.

My boy will be able to work his piano like the pro that he'll be. His fingers will slide across the keys, catalyzing a communion that will result in sounds too beautiful for nature. I will melt at the sound of his voice, and after I pick myself up off the floor, we'll go out for ice cream.

It's not always easy to remember all this. Now and then I wonder if true love is just a fairy tale, if this is all just a tortuous waste of time and energy that is slowly sucking my soul away. That's when I'm glad I have friends who have been (or are still going) through the fire to talk me down from my emotional ledge. Their words cleanse my heart. Their hugs transcend space and time to hold me close on the roughest of nights.

Someday I'm going to marry a piano playing boy. I just need to be reminded of that now and again.

Someone got here by searching for: things i do in my sleep music Reading: lisarock's journal Listening to: Tracy Chapman Watching: The Wizard of Oz Drinking: Egg nog. It's that time of year, baby!