he and she

"If you could have anything in the world," he asked. "What would it be?" She didn't answer right away, because she knew she couldn't take it back. It was like the three wishes question, which everyone messes up. She felt a little silly taking the question so seriously. He wasn't a genie, so even if it weren't properly phrased, disaster would not be waiting around the corner. Actually, disaster could be waiting around the corner, but likely it wouldn't have anything to do with her answer to this question. Still, she needed some clarification.

"Anything in the world?" she asked. "Does it have to be an object? Could it be a person? Could it be a concept? Could it be an idea?"

"Oh, just answer it. Off the top of your head. 1-2-3. What do you want?" he pressed.

"This is not an off-the-top-of-my-head question. This is a big question that could have consequences. For example, what if I blurted out 'you?' That would be big. That 'you' would just be sitting here, between us, sorta dead on its side like a goldfish. Not that I'm gonna say 'you.' I'm just using that as an example of how an impulsive answer to this question could go terribly wrong."

"Is it me?" he asked.

"No." she said.

"It's okay if it's me."

"It's not."

"Then what is it?"

"I think I'd want to remember my dreams. I never do."

"That's it?" he asked. "But you couldn't do anything with that. It's not tangible. It doesn't change anything. Whether you remember your dreams or not, you're still exactly the same."

"Not the same at all," she said. "I'd dream about all the things I can't have. And in my dreams I'd have him."

He didn't say anything. She stared at the bench. But somewhere a goldfish was swimming around just fine.