Dreams

Yesterday night we went at Linda and Chris’s place for dinner. Linda wasn’t Linda; she was wearing her grandmother’s skirt and looking at her grandmother’s magazines of the fifties. And Boris was Don Draper, and they all were Don Drapers, sipping at their dirty martinis and whiskies (not whiskeys, since they were drinking original Scottish brands) their legs crossed, and a serious, thoughtful glance in their eyes (in spite of some occasional lemon mouths). But two things were positive: I wasn’t Betty Draper! And Chris was Chris, standing up in the middle of the night and shouting “The clocks are chiming!” and then finding himself in the middle of something he couldn’t recognize, but which had definitely to be scrubbed away on the next morning.  

We had couscous and ratatouille for dinner and lime pie – the ratatouille wasn’t a ratatouille but it tasted delicious. And red wine, a lot of red wine, and talks, lot of talks, and music, flowing through, surrounding us gently, a soft echo at our words.

Linda told us about one of her little-girl-dreams, where she was on a tennis court, as tall as Alice in Wonderland after having drunk the potion – but she had only had dirty martini and red wine, hadn’t she? – and she was playing with some other people, standing in the huge part of the court, with oblique ceiling and floor which were getting more and more far from one another (like in the Jewish Museum, I shouted!), and this people getting smaller and smaller till they disappeared.

And Chris was teaching – in his own dream, not in hers – when he suddenly realised that he couldn’t go on with his lecture because the sun was shining just on his script and he couldn’t read anything on it – blended as he was, staring at a shining blank piece of paper…

Then we moved on and sat on the sofa, I dozed in Boris’ arms, we / they watched the first episodes of season four of – you know what…

And then we were talking again, another piece of pie? Norwich, climbing, arm wrestling (Chris knows a very good technique for it, arm wrestling I mean), whisky and whiskeys, rye and oat, Don Draper again, a lot of Don Drapers around me, a little argument, a lot of love, Tony Soprano, Italian restaurants in Germany (an outline of theory, yet, but with a true core in it), the night is passing by, it’s already so late, it cannot get later, can it?

And then I found myself in my bed, the sun shining through the leaves of the linden-trees out of my window, the church’s bells chiming. Did I dream it?

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