Last night I had a reoccurring dream that kept me up all night.
In my dream, I had a lover who lived in Scandinavia. He once told me how much he loved Iceland. For his birthday I got him cuff links made of vintage Icelandic stamps. At dinner he reached across the table and said “I love you.” I fell in love with him. It was not love at first sight but after a year of seeing him, sporadically, I fell for him. Hard.
In my dream, I had a lover who lived in Scandinavia. He once told me how much he loved Iceland. For his birthday I got him cuff links made of vintage Icelandic stamps. At dinner he reached across the table and said “I love you.” I fell in love with him. It was not love at first sight but after a year of seeing him, sporadically, I fell for him. Hard.
The rest of the story, as you had predicted, was nothing short of stereotypical. When it all ended, I wondered if everything was just a dream. Then I came to Iceland. For a visit, to see the volcanos and hot springs on my own. And to win a bet of eating fermented shark meat.
I realized he did not love Iceland. He loved Greenland, I was mistaken. About the place he loved, and about his alleged love for me.
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