Last night I dreamt that Channing Tatum nervously presented me with a dress he’d knitted for me. He clenched his (big, work-roughened) hands in anxious fists while I unfolded it. 

“You don’t have to wear it,” he said, before I could say anything.

The dress was perfect. It was beautiful. It could turn into a skirt.

“You like it?” Channing Tatum said, smiling crookedly.

The dress had pockets.