“Honey, I just woke from the darkest
dream.”
“I believe it. You were snorting.”
“No.”
“Yes. Tell me.”
“We were on our honeymoon-”
“That's your subconscious telling you
how much of a catch I am,” she interjected with a smile.
“You'll probably want to wait and
hear what else it thinks about you. Also, it was like you had that
ready to fire at me at any moment.”
“Maybe. Did you know you mumble in
your sleep sometimes? I find it enduring when you mumble. It's like
the words in your head are held captive during the day and are forced
to strategize an escape plan while the guard is asleep. You know,
because you're such a quiet person when awake. It doesn't bother me
you're so quiet. It's just what I know about you.”
“Okay. So, honeymoon on beach chairs
and lounging under umbrellas on an exotic beach somewhere tropical.
It was cliché. I was shielding my eyes from the reflection of the
sun on the bleach-white sand. I complained about it to you and asked
if Clorox sponsored this stretch of beach. You looked up from your
book and then went back to reading.”
“Sounds like something you'd say.”
“So next thing I know we are walking
out towards the shoreline. An unspoken connection rings in my head to
the beach scene I imagined while reading the first chapter of
Jurassic Park. The scene that didn't make it to the movie. Anyways,
the water is still and I watch a few sandpipers dig with their beaks.
I get really abstract in my thoughts and see the world from
underneath the sand looking upwards as their tiny beaks penetrate
into this now inverted world. I think it was my subconscious telling
me that you are fertile.”
“Nope,” she says firmly.
“I snap out of the bird thought with
the beach having transformed and resembling that beach we went to out
on the coast in Oregon. I can't see more than 20 feet out on the
ocean through the darkness of low clouds. The wind is soft and moist.
To our backs, clouds are rolling in across a barren landscape and we
spatially lose track of where the chairs are. It's hard to determine
if the sun is out or not. I can hardly make out a figure walking
towards us in the mist but I can see that his clothes look like a bad
Hollywood film on aboriginals. Tattered wash rags and crap. He gets
closer and the clouds instantly disappear as he opens a velcro pouch
from his board shorts and takes out a syringe of heroin. The bright
sunshine is back.”
“Wait. How'd you know it was heroin?”
“It said heroin down the side like he
had taken one of those label guns to it. So he asks if we want to buy
any. I tell him no and he walks off.”
“Cool story.”
“So the guy comes back after some
time. I'll try and hurry this up if you have somewhere better to be.”
“Sorry. Voldemort is trying to kill
Harry and I'm way too into this book,” she explains.
“This aboriginal dude is back with
another syringe of heroin and this time he doesn't take my answer of
no very well. He produces a blow dart tube thing from behind him like
he was anticipating me saying no. He loads the gun with a dart of
heroin and brings it up to his mouth. He takes aim at you and I'm
frozen. I feel his breath as he takes in air. I contemplate the
amount of pain I would suffer if somehow I ended up blocking his dart
with my hand. I'm watching his eyes on you as he follows your
movements like a hunter following his target; factoring in all
courses you might take in escape. His cheeks puff and the sound of
the dart impacting your bicep is disturbing. It sounded like when I
prep the chicken for grilling. Meat slap. I freak out as I see the
plunger push all the heroin into your body. In an instant you
collapse and I'm stuck with the dilemma. Do I chase and beat the life
out of this crazed local or do I watch as you overdose? Like what the
hell could I possibly do? I can't suck it out.”
“What did you do,” she asks.
“No idea. I woke up.”
