there were parts of the dream she couldn't remember: how she'd ended up in the meadow, where exactly she was, the scent in the air that, upon waking, had made her nostalgic for something that tickled the back of her mind and made her smile. The color of the man's eyes that sat with her on the blue and red plaid picnic blanket. What she wore that fell away so easily underneath his touch. The sex she knew they'd had: easy and slow, rhythmic strokes that she remembered as waves in her thighs and calves and breasts. She'd felt the sun, as warm as his skin, and looked through oak leaves up at a sea-blue sky as she came, the sky turning to blue-black ceiling when her contracting womb forced her awake.
Under her desk at work, she crosses her legs against the maddening ache between her thighs, the vacancy making her recall how well she'd been filled the night before. Seeking distraction, she rests her chin on her palm, unable to seek distraction in her work, and focuses on the bright summer green of trees across the street. The pines there are hazy dull, unlike the oaks in the dream. Only eleven more hours until she is in the meadow again.