I found myself at Charlottes house, but the place felt odd and blurred at the edges, as if the walls were made of mist. Suddenly, her father appeared, carrying Tesco bags that seemed to melt into his hands, full of groceries I couldnt identify. He caught us lounging in the living room, and his chin lifted like a startled heron, his eyes narrowed into stormy slits. Displeasure pulsed from him in waves, so thick I could almost taste it. Charlotte led him to the kitchen, but I overheard his booming whispers echo, calling me that country lad, insisting I was after her flat. He claimed hed spied me loitering like an apparition around his daughters home. It sounded like an accusation, nearly branding me a stalker.
The oddest part was how Charlotte, dreamily mirrored by a shadow-self, replied in his tone, declaring we only worked together once a month at the university librarythats why we wandered the streets, restless and untethered. But in truth, wed been entwined for two months, sharing secrets beneath flickering lamp posts. Id just managed to tell Charlotte that having parents in a semi-detached house on the edge of Nottingham didnt make me a country bumpkin. We lived close enough to town; our two-story home glowed with familiar warmth, and my dad was a businessman. Its true, I didnt drive fancy imported cars or parade my familys fortune on Oxford Street, but I preferred it silent, out of sight. That way, people like Charlotte and her family sift themselves out, leaving me be.
My mother always said, floating between realities, Dont speak of wealthlet the one you love look beyond the pounds and manor houses. And certainly, no one should be embarrassed of me because I dont glimmer with riches at first glance. As the dream drifted on, I watched Charlottes father dissolve into steam and wondered if shame was just another illusion, wafting away in the morning mist.
