Last night I dreamt that Channing Tatum nervously presented me with a dress he’d knitted for me. He clenched his (big, work-roughened) hands in anxious fists while I unfolded it.
“You don’t have to wear it,” he said, before I could say anything.
The dress was perfect. It was beautiful. It could turn into a skirt.
“You like it?” Channing Tatum said, smiling crookedly.
The dress had pockets.
It’s downhill from here.
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