For a few minutes, lying in his bed, still in the vapor of his dream, he’d forgotten what had happened to them. For a few minutes, he’d forgotten that they were a mess. He didn’t like remembering the bad moments, but he didn’t like remembering those moments, either. He liked to find the point in every single memory, even the good ones, where she was telling him who she really was. If he could do that, this could never happen to him again. He whacked off quickly, too quickly, then got out of bed and spent the next hour hating himself for letting his guard down so egregiously as to dream of her.