"Well, I've always had an attraction for extreme personalities."
My dreams about him are wrong, I know that. I know that when I wake up in the morning, there's no way to tell what I'll see. Hopefully, things will be going well, and my head will be in his lap, and he'll be absently winding my blonde hair around his fingers (I need to re-dye it, my roots are showing) and smile - a genuine smile, not that crazy grin that's every bit as attractive but far less precious - and say softly, "good morning, poo, are you hungry?"
And I'll sigh, quite happily, and close my eyes again but mumble, "absolutely, Mista J," and he'll slowly move me back onto the bed and go to find some food (and I'll go in a few minutes later, having slipped my nightgown back on, and he'll still be staring into the fridge and I'll push him out of the way and make breakfast as usual).
But this is unlikely, because things are not generally going particularly well, and even when they are, he still has a tendency to be too distracted for me. It's far more common for me to either wake up first and bring him his morning coffee - he drinks it black, yech - or be yelled at for not doing so.
"It's only natural that you'd be attracted to a man who would make you laugh again."
They're also weird, my dreams, but I suppose that's how dreams are. Sometimes I'm still Harleen in them, but usually I'm me, and they can get pretty graphic. Tonight, I'm reliving our activities of an hour or two earlier, though without the pain. I've had this one before. It's like he's extremely gentle, but other than that everything about the act itself is pretty much the same as in real life.
And afterwards, in my dream, I'm folding up my harlequin costume, and then putting on my old Harleen clothes - I think I still have on my makeup, mask, and headpiece, but my body is dressed in my professional outfit, my favorite 'doctory' white coat - but when he touches me, I notice even while still in the dream that it feels the same as it does when he touches me through my costume. It's a slightly possessive touch, a grip on my shoulder like I always get before I exit his line of sight, reminding me to come back, and he says, "Until next time, Doctor Quinzel," even though I'm pretty sure that even when I was Harleen, he never called me that.
"It seemed like we would live happily ever after."
Tonight, the ending is slightly different. After the cold goodbye, he kisses my chest - I don't know if my shirt disappears or is open or what, but I feel his wet lips over my esophagus, against my skin - and he looks up at me before I leave and whispers, "I'm sorry, Harl."
"That's alright, puddin'," I say automatically, though slightly confused, and I turn to leave. The dream ends before I ever make it through the front door.