Law of Dreams

8

"It's in Sydney," he said. I untied my apron and tucked it under the counter. He leaned across it, fiddling with a chocolate shaker. I couldn't bring myself to look at him. "Perry?" He barely ever said my name, so the sound of it kicked my eyes up to meet his.

"Okay," I said.

Law had been offered a job—Head Editor for a cultural arts magazine. In Sydney.

"It's an incredible opportunity, you know. I just feel like I'd be stupid not to take it."

"But you love your job."

"Yeah, but I reckon I'd prefer editing."

"Why?"

"Producing content twenty-four-seven can be a drainer. I think this would be good for me."

"Well okay," I said, grabbing my backpack and moving for the door. When he didn't reply I turned back. "It's your decision Law. I'm sure you'll do whatever you want to do without my permission."

"I'm not asking your permission."

His words slapped at my face but I just said, "Exactly." I pushed the door open and he followed me out.

"What can I say? Tell me what I can say." He raised his arms and dropped them. There were hundreds of answers to the question. They'd built up in dreams, layer over layer, ever since I'd met him that first day when he sat by the window and asked about the soy milk. What can I say? I knew that even if I told him, he never would say it.