“I dreamt that strangers were living in my home,” the man said. “I felt so terribly alone among them. I couldn’t find a place to sleep—every bed was taken. The apartment was larger than in real life, cold and unwelcoming. I kept wondering whether I even had a bed of my own, whether it was really my apartment at all. I lay down in the hallway. My eyes kept closing, but the strangers walked past me—again and again—waking me every time. With their pale, unblinking eyes… I was so tired. At one point someone I recognized appeared, but he, too, stepped right over me, just like the others. I don’t know why, but it made me so sad. I cried. Have you ever cried in your sleep?”
He sat in a booth across from a beautiful brunette. He was dark-haired himself, with sunken brown eyes behind glasses. Middle height. A bit heavy. A mole on his right cheek.
The brunette laughed—light, ringing—as if her laughter bounced off the glasses hanging above the bar.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just imagined you lying in a hallway in your own house while strangers step over you.”
“It’s not funny. I felt exhausted. And alone. At the same time. Don’t you see? I don’t want to be alone like in that dream.”
“Everyone’s alone,” she said softly. She took out a pack of cigarettes, slid one free, and held it out to him.
“You can’t smoke in here,” he murmured, glancing at the bartender watching them from behind the counter.
“Just light it,” she said, putting the cigarette between her lips. “I’ll smoke outside.”
He picked up her lighter and lit the cigarette. She rose and stepped out. Left alone, he sipped his beer and looked around the bar. He didn’t want to go out—he wasn’t a smoker and it was cold—but he should keep her company. It was their first date. Was he doing well? Was he boring?
He sighed, put on his jacket, and followed her outside.
She was talking to a stranger, their conversation breaking into laughter. The man from the bar couldn’t see the other’s face—only the ember of a cigarette and the white of his teeth, the curve of his grin. The rest of him was swallowed by the night.
“…He was sleeping on the floor, and strangers kept stepping over him on their way to the bathroom,” she was saying. “Can you imagine anyone telling you such a dream?”
The stranger shook with laughter.
The man felt something sharp—like an obsidian spear—pierce his chest. He’d seen a documentary once about how obsidian blades were sharper than steel. Now he felt one inside him.
He turned away, raised the collar of his jacket, and walked down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. He didn’t want to cross paths again.
The streetlight was weak; the path ahead barely visible. A small group spilled out of a nearby building—three women and two men dusted with confetti and glitter. The women wore gowns with plunging necklines and long trailing hems; they carried party whistles. One man was very short, in a black suit. The other was tall and thin as a reed, dark-skinned, dressed all in white with a matching hat. His cheekbones were sharp, his face almost a carnival mask.
“What are you staring at?” snapped the short man.
“Me?” the man asked, sinking into his jacket like a turtle into its shell. He tried to slip past, but one of the women—wrapped in a heavy orange-red gown—blocked his way and blew her whistle in his face. He flinched. Anger sparked, then died on his tongue.
“I… I… I…” he stammered, then let the anger drop. “Just go your way. I haven’t done anything to you.”
The women laughed and scattered down the sidewalk, leaving behind silver dust and the smell of cheap perfume.
“Fuck you!” shouted the short man, running after them.
“I didn’t say anything bad to you!” the man protested. “That’s not...fair.”
He stepped back when the tall man caught him by the collar and leaned close.
“What do you want from me?” the man whispered.
The tall man laughed—a deep, girgling sound. His eyes, wide, unblinking, looking from somewhere afar.
“You don’t understand anything,” he said. “Just leave it. Why are you even outside? Go home. Go to sleep.”
He gave the man a shove and strode after the others. His shoes were dirty.
For some reason, that—the dirty white shoes—saddened the man more than the way they’d treated him.
“Why did that make me sad?” he wondered, walking on with his hands in his pockets.
He passed a building where a small crowd had gathered. On the steps, a young man and woman were tuning guitars. Maybe people were waiting for a song, he thought.
He went beside a young woman with auburn hair and a fluffy brown coat. It looked warm. His leather jacket barely held the cold.
“It’s freezing,” he said, blowing into his hands.
“Why aren’t you dressed warmer?” she asked.
“I went on a date. Thought I should look nicer.”
“And? How was it?”
“You really want to know?”
“Not particularly,” she said with a shrug.
“Well… pretty badly,” he said anyway. “She found someone else within minutes. She told him the dream I’d just told her.”
“That is pretty bad,” the woman said. “Why would you tell her a dream?”
“I don’t know. It felt like… a thing to do. Dreams are personal.”
“That’s true…” she began, but a man in a brown jacket leaned in.
“He wanted to make an impression,” the newcomer said. “Right?”
“Yes. I wanted to give her something of myself.”
“And she didn’t keep it—she gave it away. That hurts, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Betrayal always hurts. Even from strangers.”
“Hmm. What’s your name?”
“Ro—”
“He shouldn’t be so open,” the woman cut in before he could finish.
“He’s honest,” the man in brown said. “He wants to belong. To share something of himself with the world.”
“That’s awkward,” she said. “And honestly, a bit boring. Who wants to hear about someone’s dream? Or who he even is?”
Ro— tried to protest, but she hushed him. “Shh. The music.”
The guitarists began to play. Their instruments sounded out of tune.
“They’re not tuned,” one of them said with a laugh.
“They’re not tuned,” echoed the man in brown.
“He shouldn’t speak his mind,” the woman said. “Not to strangers.”
She’s a pretty one, Ro— thought.
“Do you live here?” the man in brown asked her.
“Yes. You?”
“Second floor. Never seen you. Otherwise I’d have asked you for coffee by now. Maybe I’d tell you a dream,” he chuckled.
Ro— felt his chest go hollow when she laughed at that. He stepped aside, pretending not to listen as they made plans. The guitarists kept tuning, starting melodies and breaking them off with laughter.
Finally, Ro— had had enough. He left.
The cold struck harder now. His apartment was just up the street. He began to run. Soon he saw the building. One of the columns by the door was covered in shiny, reflective metal. He glanced at his reflection in the dim light. His eyes looked large. His face long, his forehead lined. He looked older than he was. Sick. His hair disheveled.
I look sad, he thought.
Inside, he undressed and lay down without turning on the light. He fell asleep quickly.
He dreamed strange dreams in which he cried out loud.
He woke—heart pounding—still sad from the dream.
He drank water at the sink. His reflection in the mirror looked long and gray. His eyes were sad.
Unsure if he was awake or dreaming, he lay down again and slept until morning.
Uninvited, sunlight spilled through the blinds. He lay in bed, thinking of nothing, while the sun crept across his face and refused to leave him alone.
At last, he rose, dressed, and went to make breakfast.