It’s usually a full bladder that wakes me in the early hours, but last night was different. Last night I was woken by a dream.
The dream was not a bad one, not a nightmare of escape when the ground one walks on turns to sludge, and the legs one depends upon become limp nothings. The dream that I had was a writer’s answer. It was a plot conceit, a narrative that connected both beginning and end. I was pleased and swore to remember my epiphany for the morning.
I visited the loo to quell my bladder’s urgings and on the way back into bed, sneaking as quietly as any mouse could ever sneak, my wife woke and walked in darkness to the same destination that had summoned me moments before. On returning to bed, she whispered in sleep-drugged words that she dreamt that she was pregnant.
It took me over an hour to find my way back into my slumber. The birds were already trumpeting the arrival of a new day, but eventually I fell back into that Dead Sea-float of oblivion.
When morning, the morning with the mugs of tea, the showers, and the dull threat of work arrived, my dream was gone.