For someone as admittedly-obsessed by Madonna as me, it’s odd that I haven’t dreamt of her more often. Last night was only the third or fourth time she has deigned to appear in my dreams. This time around we were in front of someone’s house, and she was in the midst of a concert. Her hair was similar to the style seen here, an updated twist and hue of her Breathless Mahoney/Vogue vixen look. She and her dancers sat on the steps talking, and she looked at me and asked my name. I looked around to be sure she was talking to me and told her.
“Hi Alan,” she said back to me.
“Hi… Madonna,” I said, beaming. Madonna had just said my name. To me. I couldn’t stop smiling. She smiled back playfully.
Then, as dreams are wont to do, the scene shifted inside. Andy and I were waiting for the next part of the concert to begin, but she came into the room, alone, and no one seemed to be bothering her. She started talking to me again. Part of me wanted to request a photo with her, but I thought she’d get mad or leave. Like some rare butterfly you happen upon in the garden, she seemed too pretty and elusive to dare risk frightening away, so I stood there and took in the moment. She waited for me to say something. I looked down at her shorts, similar to the ones she wore in the ‘Music’ section of the Sticky and Sweet Tour, only in bright yellow. “I like your shorts,” I mumbled, instantly regretting the lameness of the bland-as-milquetoast comment. She caught it immediately.
“Thanks, Gloria… Estefan,” she said with a little roll of her eyes, calling out the dull innocuousness of my words. Madonna had just zingered me. I threw my head back with a laugh. I could die a happy man now. Her face was close to mine, barely a foot away, and we said a few more things. At the end, I wondered if I should ask Andy to try to get a picture, but decided against it. Then the dream ended.
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