It’s me.

Don’t hang up.

Just give me like, maybe 5 minutes or so here. 

I swear that’s all I need.

I need to tell you about this dream I had.  

… Yes, I know it’s stupid, but will you listen to it anyway?

… Fine. Deal. All good? … Good. 

So, in the dream, I was creeping into this guy’s apartment. No, I wasn’t breaking and entering so much as just wandering in. I don’t even think it had a door in the dream. 

The man who lived in the apartment kills people. I was sure of it, but I had no idea why I had such conviction about it.

As I was snooping about, I found some photos in a manila envelope — because it’s always a manila envelope — that confirmed my suspicion. 

Right at that moment, I heard a noise that made me fully aware and absolutely certain that the man had come back home. 

The apartment had an open layout.

I was standing in the kitchen, which was kind of its own little area contained in one corner of the room. This particular corner was nearest the windows facing the street lights outside.

To the right of that was the “dining” area of the apartment, I guess. It was a glass table and two chairs. 

The door to get out was in the opposite corner of the part where I was standing. Or again, the lack of a door was in that spot. Instead, I could just see a mostly dark hallway and the top of a descending staircase just outside of the doorframe to the right.

I knew I only had moments before I saw a figure darken the doorway of the apartment, so I quickly burrowed myself into a pile of blankets lying near the glass table.

But, I made sure that I left a small opening so I could still see what the man was doing once he was inside.

As my heartbeat started picking up in anticipation of the moment I would see him walk up the stairs and turn to his left into the room, something completely unexpected happened: I became self-aware.

I mean, I was suddenly aware that this could all be a dream. 

I maybe had a moment’s peace after that thought before the heart-racing horror of the opposite, but equally valid possibility overwhelmed me: It could also not be a dream. 

Suddenly, everything had more weight in the room. 

The air had a subtle moisture to it now that I could feel slowly building up in my nostrils. And I couldn’t help but start to think of the chance of a sneeze being the thing that ensures I’m not making it out of there. 

The blankets had a feel to them too. They weren’t rough like sandpaper. But they weren’t smooth like the modern things you’d get in a decent retailer.

It was the feel of a blanket from the 1980s-90s that had been washed over and over throughout so many years that it had that weird kind of inoffensive scratchiness to it. And the cotton on the inside felt like it had been pushed too far apart by years upon years of use. 

So, in that uncomfortable place of not knowing whether or not I was really about to die at the hands of a serial killer or just wake up, I watched the man as he walked slowly across the room. My eyes attentively traced his every step.

For the most part, I was able to keep sight of him. But then, he walked behind the pile that I was currently wrapped inside, right in my blindspot. 

I immediately focused all my energy on barely breathing, on not moving at all, at holding every bit of me completely still and not panicking or trying to run. The whole time all I could think was, “Does he know I’m here? Has he known the whole time? Is he just toying with me now?”

I don’t know how long I was like that, but apparently, I was convincing enough, because the next thing I knew I was pushing through, locking and sliding down my own door while trying to catch my breath. 

And that’s when I saw you. 

You were standing in the kitchen holding a freshly-brewed cup of coffee with a smile on your face. Your deep, brown eyes staring into mine in a way that made me forget the whole Dexter-type shit I just went through. 

In fact, I don’t even mention it to you at all. 

I’m just glad to see you. I wasn’t expecting you. 

I suppose I never really am anymore. 

But you came over and sat next to me, and I asked you what brought you here this time. 

We shared your cup of coffee as you answered, passing it back and forth like communal wine.

Then, at some point, like it’s been whenever I see you, I kissed you. 

It’s not the kind of thing that leads to us becoming a beast of any number of backs or anything like that. 

It’s simply a sincere token of having the thought, “I’m glad you’re here, because I like you most.”

Then, you leaned your head on my shoulder, and I kissed your forehead. 

And in that completely out-of-place, domestic scene following my serial killer run-in, we just sat there in this comfortable silence.

Just, at peace.  

Then, I woke up. 

And I just wanted to say — in apparently the most ironic way possible — I wish I had learned to just stop talking so goddamn much and sit in silence with you more often.

I wish I had simply enjoyed the fact that you had chosen to be there in those moments with me.  

That’s all. 

…

…

…

… You there?

… Hello?

Damn. 

How long have I been talking to myself?

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