la sonĝa balo

There was a big fire. Either at an industrial complex or a transformer facility. My dream kept referencing this fire in various way, from people talking about it, news coverage, and apprehending it first-hand. Conveyed with that data was the suggestion I was culpable for the incendiary incident. How? Why? I don’t know.

There was a change in setting where I was someplace around twilight. The sun was low on the horizon which burned with pink as night’s blue crept across to snuff out that light. I was watching this from the second floor of a building when Edna came in. We were very cautious around each other, formal to a fault, but as the light waned I leaned in to kiss her. We kissed and I felt her open her mouth. I pulled back, not knowing what to do nor think, and we sat together in silence for the rest of this part of the dream. At one point the phone rang once. When I picked it up, thinking it was my Twitter friend @tacobelljar, there was only dialtone. REMEMBER THAT, EIGHTIES KIDS? Anyway I hit whatever code people use to call back a number which recently called and the line was disconnected. (DRAMATIC, SCARY MUSIC)

I guess I went downstairs, because I don’t remember any real change of scenery. There was a hoity-toity soiree happening and I was woefully underdressed, yet I gave two shits. I sat under an old standing lamp from the 1940s in a comfy chair when a woman with overly-tanned skin, blonde hair, spangled with bangles around her neck, wrists, and ankles, and one of those short black dresses which convey, “I’m nude under here, but this makes me classy.” She flopped back in a chair to my left, pulled out a cigarette case then snorted some blow. She didn’t offer but I said no thanks. Her tits were popping out of the top of her dress, and she had dark, giant nursing nipples poking the air. I wondered if they were uncomfortable getting that kind of tan. We begin talking, I feel very confident and comfortable in my own skin. Leaning in, I stage whisper, “You’re really fucking gorgeous.”

The party stops, everyone turns around to look at me which makes the whole scene uncomfortable. Rich party girl gets up and clacks away in her high heels. I head up front to get her a drink but the bartender/maître d wanted a dollar. I don’t have cash. I don’t remember the last time I walked around with cash on me. A fucking dollar stands between me and chatting up that scrawny woman who isn’t even my type.

Around this time I returned to waking life, I found that Edna finally texted me back sometime after 1:30 in the morning.

Chris S.
Anomalist, esperantist, cyclist, typist, dodecaphile, ailurophile, and oneiromancer. Chris lives near the shore with his wife, cats, and the Jersey Devil in his backyard.

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