From January of 2008.

I have never dreamed you, but I dreamt two dreams about you this week.

In the first one, we were staying in a hotel suite with two other people.  We pushed our beds together because we had a lot to say.  

I wore a towel, and you wore a newspaper.

We held hands and talked.  We had a lot to say.  Then we took a walk and avoided people that we did not like on the streets of New York City.  A policeman wanted to know if we were a couple, and we could not tell him because we did not know.  He wanted to arrest us for avoiding people.  You talked him out of it.  We suddenly wore coats.

In the second one, we went to see a movie with seven gates, based on the short film Seven Gates.  Bob Dylan was in it, and we rested our hands on my knees through the show.

More hand-holding ensued.

After Dylan was killed, we bought a box of vegetables.

I was unhappy with the organic broccoli because a giant killer assassin beetle would scurry out of it, hide under the squash, and scurry back.  I took each vegetable out of the box, but the assassin never showed.

You were sympathetic.

A lot of other stuff happened, but I can't remember.

I do know that both times, I woke up feeling disappointed, wishing that I had not woken.