[ CW ] `` I dream about you once in a while . You suppose that means anything ? ''

Mine. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The culvert's cold and the battered can perched above it ate the heat from the tiny fire, leaving nothing for the man crouched over it. Grimy hands, nails broken and dirty, hovered inches over the can anyway, in hopes of even an illusion of heat, as if the oft-repeated pose would stir memories, then the actuality, of warmth. 
 
 He looked out the mouth of the culvert and saw what he expected to see, what he always saw - gray on gray, the dirt, dead grass, mists and sky just varying degrees of the same ashy nothingness. 
 
 His eyes, sunken in a dirt-creased, wrinkled face, reflected the gray, as did the tattered and stained beard. Layers of musty clothes, filthy and sweat-stained, hid an emaciated frame and the sores that were steadily spreading across his drawn and bruised skin. 
 
 One hand, shaking slightly, left the illusory warmth of the flame, its yellows and oranges the only colors anywhere within sight, and dug into a side pocket of the ratty, no-color coat. It came out clutching a folded photo, the crease grimy and almost worn-through, edges dog-eared and stained. Slowly opening it, the man stared for a long time, his meager fire and meal forgotten, seeming to take warmth now from the picture in his hand, his eyes slowly coming alight as the lines on his face eased. 
 
 A dirty fingertip stroked an image in the photo - a woman in a yellow skirt and white top, her smile making her beautiful, her long brown hair caught rippling in a breeze. She leaned on a railing overlooking a blue ocean and cloudless sky, people visible on a crescent-shaped beach behind and below her. The man next to her - trim, in black sport shirt, khaki pants, comfortable tan loafers, sunglasses heliographing the bright sun back at the photographer - looked happy, worry-free, knowing he and they had all the time in the world. 
 
 The fingertip paused, a filthy nail trembling next to the woman's face. `` I dream about you once in a while,'' he told her, his voice barely a whisper, husked and faded as an old man's. `` You suppose that means anything?'' She stared back, ageless and smiling. 
 
 He folded the photo slowly and tucked it back into the ragged pocket and turned back to the can, its contents finally come to a boil. `` Maybe it means I'll see you again soon,'' he whispered to no one. `` I'll sleep soon, and maybe I can dream it true.''
