Lately I’ve been having fantasies…or day dreams…whatever you want to call them. They involve us getting back together, so I guess we can stick to fantasy. Do you want to hear the latest one?
Imagine three years have passed. I’m twenty-nine and you’re twenty-eight. I’ve decided to rent a house in the Hamptons for the summer.
(Just me renting the house. No one else. This fantasy requires me to get rich in the next few years. Outrageous, I know. Especially if it’s only three years from now. But that’s a fantasy for you. I don’t know how exactly I’ll make my money. Maybe I’ll marry a wealthy octogenarian and then he’ll die of mysterious causes a year or two later, leaving me his vast fortune. Or I might win the lottery on my own or as part of a work pool. A few hundred million can go a long way among ten people. Or maybe I’ll go on Antiques Road Show with some priceless artifact my grandmother bought decades ago and kept in her attic gathering dust until I unearthed it and sold it for millions. One way I know I’m not going to get wealthy is by plugging away at my current job for three more years. I need a get-rich-quick scheme…jobs in my industry need not apply.)
Anyways, go along with me here and suspend your disbelief. Fantasies are all about entertainment. And if nothing else, maybe you’ll get a laugh out of the implausibility of mine.
So I’ve rented this house out in the Hamptons. I’m independently wealthy, so I don’t need to worry about regular things like working in an office all summer. Being by myself in this gigantic house, I’ll need friends to come visit me on the weekends and also during the weekdays. I mean, who’s going to say no to a free invitation out to the Hamptons. Especially when they get to hang out with me the whole time.
A beautiful beach within walking distance, poolside cosmos at one in the afternoon, me cooking delicious meals in my fully-stocked Hamptons kitchen, the joy of T-time (not the beverage, but the far more enjoyable hours of dishing all the latest gossip) and then getting to spend all weekend with Shelby.
“Who’s Shelby?” you might ask. She’s my fantasy dog, and probably the most feasible part of this whole Hamptons experience. Shelby’s a beautiful and elegant Shiba Inu who I’d take for walks every day and who’d snuggle up with me in bed each night. If I’m going to be in the Hamptons all summer, I’m going to need a companion.
(You’re jealous of my fantasy dog, aren’t you? Don’t worry. You might get to meet her one day.)
With all these benefits who could say no to my Hamptons invitation? No one.
So that’s the foundation of my fantasy. I have this awesome Hamptons house and I have an adorable dog and lots of friends. There’s only one way to kick off what would be the best summer ever — a Labor Day weekend party!
I’d send out all of my invites and in some bizarre logic I’d decide to reach out to you and your best friends Tyler and Aaron. Then by some even more bizarre reason (obviously it would be the existence of Shelby that would sway you) you’d decide to accept the invitation. (I’m not sure how exactly this would come about. Perhaps I would feel like three years was long enough to get over a grudge. I do value you as a friend. It’s probably the thing I miss most from our ended relationship. And I am now friends with my first ex-, which took us about three years to get back to. The future is unknowable. And this is my fantasy. It doesn’t have to make sense.)
So my fantasy begins.
You and my other friends would arrive for Labor Day weekend and I’d have everything all set up to entertain. The first night would be normal. Nothing special happening. We’d talk here and there, easing back into a conversation one word at a time until we had a few sentences’ (maybe even a whole paragraph’s) worth of reconnection.
The next morning is when things would start.