Just a Dream
Feb 6th, 2008 by Alex
It’s five in the morning and I awaken from a dream.
I threw a party at my place. It must have been a crazy one, since there were empties everywhere and half-empty bottle of booze on the counter. I wake up and find that my guests have already made breakfast for themselves. There are health food wrappers in the trash can from my friends who bring their own food and snacks sometimes. Even acquaintances have taken the liberty to help themselves to my recently purchased groceries, to the point where there’s little left for me. No one bothered waking me or saving some food. I am upset. Why didn’t they wake me? No doubt I needed the sleep since I’m fuzzy about the evening’s events.
I sit on the couch and look around. I know that L and J had been there but they aren’t here now. Someone confirms that indeed was the case. I remember being antisocial last night, but not how. My friend N comes by and sits down, watching TV with me. I say something and her face lights up, repeating it. Something witty maybe? Her husband can see I’m working through things and offers “there was the spicy beer, but then there was the SPICY beer which I took when you put it down.” Oh yeah, now I remember. I do recall the spicy beer. I confess to N that I feel like a bad host, like I was reading blogs or sites or something on the Internet all night and avoiding my guests. She is silent.
I pickup a book off the table and flip through. It isn’t mine, but I’m getting strange sense of deja vu. The book appears to be written in the first person and ordered much like a diary or journal. There is an entire section about the author’s trip to France, an entry about her Duty in Annapolis, college stories, and references to people such as “the Sexy” and “the Boyfriend.” I close the book and stare at the cover. Something about the author’s name. N looks at me and says “that line, I quoted it from there.” her husband says, “you two were on the couch reading and whispering all night.”
Oh my God.
The author’s name. When reversed, it spells N’s name in full. I start flipping through it. It’s incredibly detailed, but all entries are dated. She’s been writing for a ling time and had never told anyone, then had her works published under and quasi-anonymous pseudonym. I ask what site she used to write on and she looked at me uncomfortably. What software, then? Her husband too. I get it. It’s private. I wonder who else knows that N — who I’ve never known to write much of anything, let alone share with the masses outside her friends and family — has published a book about her endeavors. I’m guessing no else knows. I came to it on my own, suspecting that they helped me along last night to help me forget the details. I am still amazed, now wanting to re-read every page with this new knowledge about its author.
This dream lingered. I couldn’t sleep, this dream literally weighing on my chest. Mouth dry, I went to the kitchen to get some water. I booted the laptop because I had to know, the dream being so vivid. The book’s design, the photo-laden page layout, the publisher’s name, etc. Amazon returns 0 results for my friend N’s fictitious pen name.
Just a dream.
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