I am sitting in the piano bar of a local seafood restaurant on the river with my girlfriends, K~ and H~. [This is, in fact, where I was Friday evening, so, not, in and of itself, odd]. I squeeze a slice of orange into my draft of Blue Moon, and the three of us begin to systematically shred a book that is lying on the table between us. [In real life, I squeezed an orange into my Blue Moon and the three of us tore into some shrimp spring rolls and calamari. Not a book.]
I cannot see the title of the book, but, as we shred the pages, we eat them. We lick ink from our fingers.
It's pouring outside.
We walk outside through the rain, and K~ and H~ are gone. I am walking through an open air market in Morocco with Husband. [I've never been to Morocco, I don't know how or why I know that's where the dream has taken me.]
"Morocco is not really Africa," I say. "I want to have a cup of tea. In Africa. In Egypt. We should have a cup of tea there, in Egypt. The real Africa."
Husband and I are standing on an ice flow. I am so cold. The ice flow, somehow, is taking us, inexplicably, to Egypt. For tea.
I am cold, colder and colder, until I am consumed with thoughts of how terribly cold I am.
Suddenly, I am awake, and all my blankets are pushed to the end of the bed. I am curled up around the small auxiliary cat, shivering in our purposefully chilly bedroom, trying to decide what this means...