JULIE ANN STEVENS

Last night I dreamed I went fishing with Brad Pitt.

I have a red fishing pole.  We are baiting with worms and I catch the first fish — a Crappie.  Thinking I am really something, I take it off the hook bare handed and hold it up for Brad to admire. 

Then I topple head first into the water. 

It is a graceful topple, followed by several minutes of underwater erotica — a la Blue Lagoon — only more developed, so to speak.

When I surface, the river banks are populated with a multitude of fishermen, all throwing their lines in. 

I stride like a starlet on the man carpet, my mind consumed with one thing. 

Where is my red fishing pole?

When I spot Brad, surrounded by his new fishing buddies, I appeal to him to help me in the search.  It’s a classic “do I know you?” moment.  

I stir in my sleep.  Roll over mumbling —

“Other fish in the sea.  Other fish in the sea.”