I was at a strange dining room table–at least I thought it was me. I “felt” young, tall, and handsome. In front of me was an empty plate, accompanied by the full assortment of silverware and a fancy cloth napkin. Someone was talking to me from the adjacent kitchen as if we were intimately acquainted, but I could only guess who it was, and my guess was outrageous.
Just then, Sophie Cunningham, Guard for the Indiana Fever emerged from the kitchen wearing her white jersey, No. 8, and white, high-cut shorts. In one hand was a pan of pancakes, hot off the stove, in the other was a bottle of maple syrup. A spatula was playfully clenched between her pearly-white teeth.
She transferred the flapjacks from the pan to the center of my plate exclaiming “Three points for my Jackie-boy!,” and kissed me on the temple. She then came around behind me and diced up my pancakes while whispering into one of my ears that her “big boy needs his cakes.” She finished with a slow drizzle of maple syrup over the cakes.
Suddenly, sexy Sophie didn’t matter. Me hungy! Me likey cakes! But the pancakes tasted awful. In fact, they didn’t taste like anything, and I couldn’t even swallow the first bite. At the same time, Sophie started hissing like a balloon losing its air or at least I thought that was Sophie. I chewed a few more times with no luck until my wife woke me up. I had been chewing on the bottom portion of my silicone C-PAP mask, and the hissing was the C-PAP air escaping. I don’t know what’s more depressing: the fact that I need to wear a C-PAP every night, I couldn’t enjoy pancakes even in my dreams, or no Sophie Cunningham. At least she wasn’t hissing. If that were the case I think I would have shit the bed.
I should consider myself a lucky man: I’m happily married and occasionally get to eat real pancakes. As for Sophie, she’s out for the rest of the season with a torn MCL and is only a fantasy. The C-PAP, alas, is a nightly reality.
Sophie, sexy even in a MCL brace.
BURGER SCOOT 
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