My wife started talking in her sleep. At first, it scared me. Full coherent sentences piercing the predawn night. As I got used to it, the one-sided conversation began to intrigue me.

In fact, there’s one story she tells quite often of a girl she met at the university where she teaches. 

“Pretty young thing,” she mumbles. “Intellect as beautiful as her body. Perky breasts, athletic legs and ass. Reminds me of when we were twenty. Oh, and she has the cutest quirk; recites Thoreau while we fuck.”

“Are you dreaming?” I ask her, full curiosity brewing. 

She never answers.