On June 3rd 2009 approximately between 7 and 9 am: I Had This Dream

The sequence of events:
She asked me to shoot her out of the canon that was behind me in an open unfamiliar field, this girl I used to see. Knowing I wouldn’t refuse, she handed me a few hundred dollars in ones and fives, and one one hundred dollar bill. Graceful as a synchronized swimmer she lowered herself down into the canon, her arms outstretched straight and open palms together ready for flight. The shot echoes.
She went up like Fourth of July, and as she scattered beautifully across the sky pieces of her floated slowly down.
Before what was left of her could rain on me I realized the field had become a basketball court, one you might find in a high school gymnasium. The thick smell of maple polish is everywhere and at the other end, beneath the hoop, a tiny wheelchair, about the size of a coffee mug, catches my attention. On the sidelines, cheering for and reaching out for this almost molecule sized wheelchair is a pair of Hasidic Jews, a couple, who I know to be the parents of whatever is confined to the chair.
I realize the court has been converted for the time being into what feels like a high school dance. Slow R&B has gathered the awkward closeness of dancers freckled about the large space. Something like "If you're horny, let's do it / Ride it; my pony," or “This is how we do it,” is spilling from the DJ speakers.
The Hasidic chaperones point at me and scream at the wheelchair, that has only been swaying from side to side, the driver still hidden from view.
It spins around and suddenly we’re facing one another, well we’re toe to face, and I’m looking down at the small organism bound to the wheelchair.
A girl, she asks to dance and I bend down. Our dance looks like me bending down trying to gently put a collar on a very small puppy. It is the smallest dance ever danced.
This girl though, is two hacky sacks, one for a head and one for a body, with two toothpick arms and two toothpick legs and a brunette wig that sometimes is blonde in the DJ’s strobe light. Her smile is thin and long. She wears this smile like a red coffee stirrer. As we dance, all her emotion dwells in her one faint smile, stretched across her burlap colored face. I pinch her straw thin arms and pull to make her wheelchair move, afraid that if we move to fast her arms might come off.
Over my shoulder her Hasidic Jewish parents cheer our first dance on.
She is about the size of two stacked sugar cubes. Our dance is vulnerable, awkward, and hot in the spotlight. My knees begin to tire from bending down to meet her extraordinary lack of height. My arms tingle numb. This dance has grown old and I can tell her parents are waiting for me to propose. I haven’t the ring nor the commitment to this unusual affair.
My dance partner can read my mind and when she cries it’s like watching a piece of paper towel absorb a drop of water.
Her Hasidic father fidgets nervously, beads of sweat falling from beneath his thick black hat. Her mother clasps her fists together at her wrenched heart. The pressure is building.
I drop her toothpick arms and look at her damp burlap face and tell her it’s because she is too Jewish. I don’t want to tell her it’s because she is an inanimate object in a miniature wheelchair.
I look at her vampire parents and turn back to her and repeat… you’re just too Jewish.
Her glued on face absorbs the tears as her one-dimensional smile bends away.
She rolls slowly back to the other end of the floor, my tiny dancer.