Ian and I were having it out.


     He was on my last nerve (and I on his) and neither of us were going to back down. He'd taken the train south for a visit and I'd yet to explain things to him. We were busy looking for a drink but the place was specific-- that was what the argument was about.


     "It's down this way," Ian claimed.
     "It most certainly is not down that way," I countered.
     "It is!"
     "I live here-- you don't. I know. It is not there!"
     "You might live here but you don't know everything. Have you even been there before?"
     "What? Me? No. Never."
     "Well, I have-- so I know."
     "You?! When did you go?"
     He shrugged, "Dunno-- sometime."
     "What-- without me?"
     "I went round to yours-- you weren't there."
     I stopped to think about this, "Where could I have been?"
     "I dunno. Where were you?"
     I shrugged, "Dunno. I do, however, know these streets like the back of my hand. See?"
     I held out my hand for him to study. He looked at it quizzically.
     "What are you showing me for? I don't know the back of your hand."
     "Think of it as a map. The veins are roads."
     He leaned forward for a better view.
     "K, so where are we?"
     "Here!" I lifted my hand so that it hit him in the nose.
     He recoiled and covered his face.
     "Hey!" he yelped, "God I hate you sometimes."
     "I hate your jeans."
     "You don't have to wear them! Fuck. My nose. Ouch."
     "I loathe them."
     He tilted his head back, "Look at it! Look at it! Is it bleeding?"
     "Don't be daft. 'Course it isn't bleeding."
     I ruffled his hair. He punched me in the stomach. I faked a jab at his chest then went for the nose again.
     "I dreamt that you died," I said-- getting on with explaining things.
     "What a terrible thing to say."
     "I'm serious. It was strange."
     "How'd it happen?" Ian enquired.
     "You fell from a building."
     "Fell? More likely you pushed me."
     "I didn't. I wasn't even there. Sylvie told me."
     "How was she?"
     "Heartbroken, of course."
     "Of course."
     "I met this girl-- in the dream."
     "Ah! A dream girl."
     "Yeah-- not really."
     "Was she pretty?"
     "Yeah she was alright. American-- fixated on suicide."
     "Even the girls in your dreams are mad."
     "Somehow real life soaks through-- you know what's sad about the whole thing, though-- I wouldn't have minded if she were real."
     "Oh well, maybe you can dream her again."
     "Perhaps."
     "I'd thank you to leave me out of it. Death and all."
     "Gladly."
     "Unless you can dream one for me."
     "I'll give it a go."
     "And no mad ones."
     "Aren't you particular!"
     "Nah, just partial to sanity-- here it is!" He stopped before the door and held it opened for me, "I told you! Now go on then-- age before beauty."
     I held my fist up like I was going to hit him in the face. He dodged to avoid it.
     "When was it?" Ian asked.
     "When was what?"
     "The dream? When did you have it?"
     "Oh, it was--," but then I thought about it and I couldn't exactly recall having had the dream. I couldn't recall the last time that I had fallen asleep or the last time that I had woken up.
     "Lee..."
     Rita said that I had fainted-- then I woke up.
     "May I have the phone please?"
     I woke up and then... what happened right after I woke up?
     "Lee!" Ian let out a squeaky scream. It sounded like a tantrum. I snapped my head up to give him my attention, "The phone!"
     "Eh?"
     "May I have my phone, please?"
     "I haven't got your phone. It's in your coat."
     I met Ian at the train...no, I couldn't remember having done that. He came over... no, I didn't remember that either.
     "Yes, you have so got it."
     In fact, I couldn't remember anything before we started arguing. I couldn't even remember where we were trying to get to in the first place.
     "Dad gave it you in the garage."
    
     I tilted my head back in exasperation.
    
     "Fuck."
    
     "Did you lose it?"
     "No," I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled it out for him, "Here."
     He smiled at me but it wasn't gratitude. It was like he had been let in on a secret.
     "This is the dream, isn't it?"
     "Yeah," I confirmed.
     "How does it feel?" He flipped his phone opened and closed in a repetitive motion.
     "Pretty shit, really."
     "Least the American girl is real."
     "Yeah."
     "Still mad, though."
     "Yeah-- she's not so bad."
     "I thought it was strange that I had to show you to your room..."


     I looked up to find it was the ceiling above my old bed-- when I opened my eyes-- it remained the same.