The mist hits me as it escapes the tunnels below, curling through my hair and whisking my vision away.  My black Mary Jane heels click with a satisfying scraping sound against the newly wet pavement and as I walk through the steam I am the lead in a 1940's picture.  My knit crop jacket hugs tightly, matching my clutch, and my blue dress-accenting each curve-billows perfectly above my calves.  

The taxi horn blares as my foot hits the road and I jump back, heart pounding awakened from my dream.  The outfit is the same, but the time is all wrong.  I should have been that leading lady.  Cell phones and emails are still like strangers to me; I know what they are and can interact with them fine but they never leave me with a feeling of comfort or belonging or safeness.  Give me letters, and pens to dip in ink and telegrams, something to hold, to feel, to keep.  I want to hear the sound of beige paper crinkling in my hands as I unfold the words he has sent to me...