Last night I was so tired that I reluctantly cut short an online conversation, read a page or so of The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide, fell asleep on top of the covers with the 200-watt light on, and remained in that condition until 4:00 a.m. I'm sure that I don't get very good sleep that way and that the light bothers me subconsciously.
After I drifted off the second time, after turning the light off, I dreamed that I went home for no particular reason—that is, not for a reunion or other occasion—and that everything seemed both different and familiar.
Under the trees was an elaborate shopping area with displays of high-end goods such as quality watches and fine china. I wondered what happened to all that stuff when it rained, then I saw that it was enclosed under a roof in some way that made it look like a fancy mall.
Suddenly something struck me that must have been on my mind—that there would be no possibility of seeing That Boy during this visit. Although I must have planned the trip that way intentionally, I felt a sickening wave of disappointment that I would not see him. I believe that I didn't want to see him because of the invariable humiliation of being ignored or, worse, unnoticed, yet of course I wanted to see him to satisfy some ill-defined hunger.
And then I did. He was there, near me. I half-hoped he wouldn't notice me. He didn't.
As for the other half-hope . . .