I dreamed about Rita Hayworth last night.
In the dream, I ran into her at a party in New York City. "Hi, Rita," I said.
"You recognized me," she said. "Did you do anything for Canada Day yesterday?"
"No."
"I didn't, either. I live in a small town in Illinois. It doesn't matter."
"I suppose I could have ordered a pizza with Canadian bacon on it," I said. She laughed, and the dream abruptly shifted, as dreams do, to something entirely different and not nearly as pleasant.
I told my wife about it after we were both awake. She wasn't impressed. "Rita Hayworth was before our time," she pointed out.
"That doesn't matter in dreams. In the dream, we were both about 60."
"If you'd dreamed about Ginger Rogers, it might have at least made sense."
"I once danced with Ginger Rogers," I said. "At least, I think it was Ginger Rogers."
"I know."
"She lived around here." I stopped. Melody was getting that look spouses get when you're about to launch into a story they've heard a thousand times or so, and it felt prudent not to burden her with it any further.
You haven't heard it a thousand times or so, however.
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