Peter woke up startled, as he has been for the past week or so. This time it was his second toe from bottom that had to be put down. Overcome by grief as they were saying their last goodbyes, he tried to give Isabel a tight hug, when his back broke waking him up. As usual he religiously recorded all that could remember before even what was left, left him. He also noted down how his back wasn't broken, and how Isabel never really existed. He tried harder to remember more. Then he reread the account for typos, hovered over the word 'really' in 'never really existed', and stroke it off. God! Did that word ever give him nightmares.
Sometimes he tries to recall when they all started, these unreal but realistic experiences during sleep. He's wanted to name the phenomenon, but couldn't settle on anything. They would all sound smart and cool in the beginning. A week later, stupid. At some point he gave up trying to derive a suitable name from existing words. After all, not every word originated from another. Since having this realisation, he's spent quite a few evenings making funny sounds and sometimes even moans - pained as well as kinky (never both simultaneously. But to be fair he never really tried). Pardon the digression but this part is funny: Pissed of with this behaviour, his neighbour laced his milk supply one day with superglue. Unfortunately Isabel (his (meaning Peter's) dog, not the toe)) drank it and has been unable to make a sound ever since on account of dying on the spot. And the culprit was never caught! Isn't that hilarious?! I still can't believe how lucky I am to have escaped Peter's wrath - the dude's got monstrous arms.
Ahem, where was I? Oh yes, he sometimes tries to recall when they all started. Never can. What he does remember vividly is the first time he described it to someone. His friends at the bar he frequented during middle school. He described to them how Andrea was about to kiss him on his left nose when he, much to his embarrassment, snorted loudly only to realise that he was actually lying on his bed! In his room where he had slept the previous night! No Andrea around! He was hoping that one of them could throw some light on what the hell happened. And maybe help him save face in front of Andrea, if that was even possible then. The buggers had just said "You were dreaming!". Dreaming? He wasn't a dreamer. He wasn't of that wishy-washy type. He wasn't a crazy person. Or gay. Neither did he have any intention of enlisting in the future. Over the years he's gotten used to this kind of response though and has learnt to keep to himself about his... dreams shall we call them for lack of a better (any) word.
Peter, tired, dragged along slowly up the stairs leading to his office. Ever since the amendment of the open vehicle container laws, he's had to ride his car to work. To make things worse, he can't wear his work clothes in the car. The entire fucking city has to get into uncomfortable suits, complete with bow-ties, just to make their car rides bearable. "Good morning, Mr Cuminmyear!", sniggered the receptionist Ms Piffin cheerfully. He gave her a weak smile and walked on. He's gotten used to the ridicule his name brings him as well. Peter Bigear the funny boys in school used to call him. Lacked creativity, but quite effectively exploited his rather large ear flaps.
"Coffee lounge, changing rooms and then some sleep", he told himself. He simply couldn't wait to get into his spandex.
Sometimes he tries to recall when they all started, these unreal but realistic experiences during sleep. He's wanted to name the phenomenon, but couldn't settle on anything. They would all sound smart and cool in the beginning. A week later, stupid. At some point he gave up trying to derive a suitable name from existing words. After all, not every word originated from another. Since having this realisation, he's spent quite a few evenings making funny sounds and sometimes even moans - pained as well as kinky (never both simultaneously. But to be fair he never really tried). Pardon the digression but this part is funny: Pissed of with this behaviour, his neighbour laced his milk supply one day with superglue. Unfortunately Isabel (his (meaning Peter's) dog, not the toe)) drank it and has been unable to make a sound ever since on account of dying on the spot. And the culprit was never caught! Isn't that hilarious?! I still can't believe how lucky I am to have escaped Peter's wrath - the dude's got monstrous arms.
Ahem, where was I? Oh yes, he sometimes tries to recall when they all started. Never can. What he does remember vividly is the first time he described it to someone. His friends at the bar he frequented during middle school. He described to them how Andrea was about to kiss him on his left nose when he, much to his embarrassment, snorted loudly only to realise that he was actually lying on his bed! In his room where he had slept the previous night! No Andrea around! He was hoping that one of them could throw some light on what the hell happened. And maybe help him save face in front of Andrea, if that was even possible then. The buggers had just said "You were dreaming!". Dreaming? He wasn't a dreamer. He wasn't of that wishy-washy type. He wasn't a crazy person. Or gay. Neither did he have any intention of enlisting in the future. Over the years he's gotten used to this kind of response though and has learnt to keep to himself about his... dreams shall we call them for lack of a better (any) word.
****
"Coffee lounge, changing rooms and then some sleep", he told himself. He simply couldn't wait to get into his spandex.
(To be continued. Maybe.)
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