In my dream, I see an old friend. She smiles and her teeth are lasagna noodles. Pathetic, I mumble to my imagination. She dutifully shifts the scene. I see myself standing in Jurassic Park with a dog on a leash. I release the dog into an enclosed ring. Dog vs. raptor? Stupid, I sigh. But I let it unfold. In the dark I bandage a gushing neck. My hands are wet and warm.
I wake into daylight with eyes gummed and puffy. The fan oscillates, rippling the sheet that covers my legs. I see the pale blue sky through the curtain crack, through the trees. Smeary without my glasses.
I fall asleep on the couch, on my back, with my arms hugging my chest. They're sitting on the other end, huddled around the iPad, watching a video of their own making. I float above them. Their giggles echo from a tin can, far below me.
Someone brushes against my foot and pierces the pontoon supporting me. A gash through my skin. I slam into myself and open my eyes. They don't see me and there is no blood. Dizziness shrouds my head and it takes me a long time unwrap that stuffy gauze.
The half moon, she states from the back seat. I look away from the road and see it too. A circle cut in half with a stark center line, the dark side suggested. I could stare and stare but the ground is racing under my wheels and anything could jump from the shadows so it's just a glance and I'm back to watching the white dashed lines reel on by. It's beautiful, isn't it, I reply. That's all I can think to say.
I move slowly through the grass, eyes on the ground, hunting for dog poop. I hate it when they step in it.
A few steps and my toes are all wet, my sandals soaked. The grass is dark and cold. I imagine this condensation as drops squeezed out of the air during the night by thousands of invisible hands -- magical milk. Suddenly I want to lay in the dew. Roll around in it and drink it down. It will fill me.
And then I step in an overlooked pile. I finish the job and leave my shoes by the door. I'll deal with you later. I say it to myself, to the shoes.