Tyler adjusts his neck in his collar, and then grasps at his tongue with the tips of this fingers.  He makes a slight spitting sound as he tries to grasp the imaginary hair from his mouth.  It sounds like, "thpt,"only softer.  He thinks its a blonde hair but he really can't remember if she spent the night last night with him or not.  Was he dreaming last night?  He stares blankly ahead, trying to find this hair. Its a blonde hair, or its brown.
His colleagues sit around the table eating doughnuts and talking about the show "Friends."  Tyler wants to watch this show, but he can't.  Francis brings out his huge phone and starts waving it in front of Tyler's face.  A picture of Francis with his kid.  They are making faces.
"Erm," Tyler says.  He likes kids fine.  He doesn't like looking at picture on peoples phones.  Or he doesn't really mind it.  Its just meaningless to him.
"We were taking pictures of ourselves making faces," Francis says. 
"Ah," Tyler says.  The hair has vanished.  Tyler hears his co-workers asking different questions, getting ready for the meeting.  Something about computers.  Did Tyler have similar problems?  He didn't know.  He decided to act like he is trying to fish something out of his coffee.  His phone started buzzing in his pocket.  He pushes back his chair and stands up, making the "I have to take this call," face to the table.  He steps outside with the phone to his head.
"Bro, hey, Dad's gonna be fine.  He just had a panic attack.  Too much weed or something.  He is gonna stay here for another 20 minutes or so, then he is going home.  It's nothing."
Tyler cleared his throat.  "Thank god.  Ok.  That is great news.  I may swing by his house and bring him a coke or something.  Glad he is ok."
He pops back into the meeting room and mentions his dad is in the hospital.  Someone says "that is awful."  Tyler assures them that its nothing but he told his mom he would drop by and help out.  They completely understand.
Tyler tries to hide the joy in his quick walk as he bounds down the two flights of stairs to the 4th floor.  He slows to a crawl right before passing Veronica's door.  A slower crawl.  He half turns into her office.
"Hey," he says.  Sorta hanging on the "ay", exaggerating his southerness. 
"Hi," she says.  Staring up at him from her desk.  Eyes locked.  He drums triplets on the door jam. 
"I'm getting out of here.  Wanna get lunch or something?"
"Right," she says, sitting back in her chair, still looking at him.
"Right," he says.  He walks towards the elevator at the end of the hall, pressing the down button.  His left eye twitches a little and he rubs his hand over his face near his jaw line.  He thinks he hears birds calling.  He isn't sure. 

"Searching for beautiful truths, wishing there was someway to put it back to be with you," he said, sliding into the booth across the table from the lovely Anne Rolands, varsity queen, valedictorian, star basketball player, home coming queen, farmers daughter, and accomplished amateur poet.  She had won the local poetry contest in her town's paper the past three years running.  She had one poem published by a well known state publication, and had, currently, one poem up for an award nationally.  Tyler loved her.  Loved her as only a 17 year old can; completely, and without false pretense.  He would kill for her.
"What the fuck does that mean," Anne said; she had her father's mouth.
Tyler tore at his muffin and pondered the sharpness of her nose, her tiny mouth, and the way her hair parted close to the middle.  He had loved her since he was 15, an age of falling down, stubbing your feet, and adjusting your body into clothes and shoes that never seem to fit.  Light fell into the cafe from a 50 degree angle, filtering loosely through the dust and into the back of Anne's hair, giving her a angel quality.  This was not lost on Tyler. 
"I love you, Anne," Tyler said. 
In dreams sometimes it becomes apparent that nothing is real.