As I was dreaming of you, a fly – I know the one, it had been, despite the open window, or because of it perhaps, in my room all day – kept landing on me. My t-shirt, falling against my body, left exposed a sweet patch of flesh just at the top of where my arm met my armpit. This is where the fly kept alighting and waking me up. How silly that a thing as small and nothing as a fly could wake me up – not once or twice, but perhaps five times during the forty minute nap I had allowed myself, the nap I would in my dreams refer to as a siesta, because you had used that word the other day and reminded me of it and how much sweeter siestas are than naps and about Spain, where, incidentally, you now most probably were. I wonder if a cold beer is pressed to your lips yet... I grow hot at the thought of it. And so the fly, alighting there, (was it the sweat?) woke me over and again, and each time I swatted it away with the hand that was not curled beneath my head and fell back to sleep to try to dream of you again, again to try to dream of you. And each time it woke me, I woke with a deeper sadness at your not being beside me in any realm – real or dreamt – and though I felt your name on my lips I knew that that alone could not bring you to me. Instead I was left half asleep, half awake, the breeze running so along my bare legs, cooling them, and you not here but not there either, so sweet and so sad.