My Cardboard Balcony

We Write Down Our Dreams by Belinda Roddie We write down our dreams over pecan pie, the diner lights dimming above our heads, signaling that it's time to say goodbye and return to the comfort of our beds. But we don't go to sleep. We tuck our pens behind our ears, we slam our journals shut, and we jump in your old Mercedes Benz and drive until we see no others but the occasional truck skimming the road, where trees grow taller than the skyscrapers. We keep jotting down dreams, the heavy code of fantasy, while the car engine purrs a lullaby. We try to comprehend our minds' worlds, where we're foreign residents.

Iris was on the opposite side of the crosswalk, fiddling with the small pin that glinted on the left side of her shirt collar. She waited for me to walk hurriedly toward her, avoiding a few pedestrians and one jerkwad behind the wheel of a semi who didn't bother to read the Yield sign. When I got to her, I could see the worry pooling in her eyes. "It's okay," I whispered, pulling her into my arms without hesitation. "I'm here. Everything's going to be fine."