Since I won’t be in this fairy land for much longer, I take in the sights. The wide expanse of green lawn, the picturesque white gazebo, the sunshine that legitimately warms my shoulders. This dream is in high def and I, for one, appreciate my imagination for putting in the work. I can’t remember the last time I had a dream this vivid. Normally the only thing running through my mind whether asleep or awake is obscure case law.
The row of houses I escaped from are all painted in pastel colors with coordinating trim. Mine is pink with a yellow front door, because of course it is.
I’m approaching that beacon of sunshine I left wide open, ready to tuck my apparently beyond exhausted ass back into bed so this dream can come to an end, when the front door of the house to the left of mine bursts open.
A man, white, tall, brown hair, dressed in a matching plaid pajama set I’ve never seen on a real-life human before, runs down the front steps to his white picket fence, his head turning frantically back and forth, much as mine did just a few minutes before.
And that’s when I stop in my tracks because despite the messy hair and stubbled jaw, he’s immediately recognizable.
“Ben?”
His eyes narrow as he takes me in, approaching me slowly like I’m some kind of monster from under the bed and he needs to proceed with caution. I don’t think I was that much of a bitch last night, but whatever.
I am surprised to see him in my dream, though. I didn’t realize he’d left that big of an impression on me.
“Cam?” His voice is hoarse, still thick with sleep. “Where are we? What’s going on? What’s happening?”
I cross the few final steps separating us, patting his arm like it might bestow some comfort. Hmm. Not a bad bulge of biceps he’s got going on there. “Don’t worry. This is all just a dream.”
“A dream?” He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank god.”
“I know, right? I’m going straight back to bed in the hopes of waking up immediately. Props to you though, not many men make it past date one, and you made it all the way into my subconscious!” I start to head back toward the little pink dollhouse.
“Wait, but if this is your dream, then how am I seeing it too?”
I wave at him over my shoulder. “That’s totally something Dream Ben would say.”
Not that I know him well enough to know what Dream Ben would say, but who cares? This is my dream and I’m putting an end to it right now.
I march up the stairs leading to my front door and right back into the bedroom. I tuck myself into those cozy ass sheets, pulling the comforter up to my chin.
I’ve been “awake” for only about an hour, but sleep pulls me under quickly, my brain confident I’ll be for real waking up in my own bed, my own apartment, and my own lifesoon.
3
I cautiously open one eye, though I don’t even need to do that much to know that somehow, even after what must be hours of extra sleep, I still have not awoken from my dream.
Sunlight once again shines through the lace curtains (what is even the point of lace curtains?). As I climb warily from the bed, I look down to see the same polka-dotted pajamas, and a quick glance in the mirror shows me I’m hair and makeup ready. At least, hair and makeup ready were I rushing a sorority.
I pinch my arm. It stings, and though my nails are short and painted a pale pink, they leave a mark on my skin.
My stomach spins.
Pinching is supposed to be the test, right? If every piece of media ever written abides by the “pinch me” rule, then Dream Me shouldn’t be able to leave a physical mark.
Something has gone seriously wrong.
“I need to get the fuck out of here.”
I rush toward the closet, rifling through until I find apair of yoga pants and a matching top that I swear weren’t there before. They’re a disgusting Pepto-Bismol pink, but beggars can’t be choosers. Quickly discarding my stupidly adorable pajamas, I yank on my new clothes. There’s a pair of pristine white sneakers in the shoe bin by the front door; I shove my feet in them and am in the front yard less than ten minutes after “waking up.”
I check the yard to my right, but there’s no sign of Ben. I can’t let myself worry about him right now—it’s every woman for herself. I march down the street, prepared to walk however long it takes to get my mind to shake off this dream. I spend an hour every morning on my Peloton and I live in New York; whatever this tiny speck of a dream town has in store for me can’t compete with the step counts I rack up at home.
I don’t let myself think of the alternative—that this isn’t a dream at all. Surely there is no other explanation. There’s no possible way any of this is real. How could any of this be real?
But if it is, if by some slim margin of chance, I’ve somehow found myself transported through a rip in the multiverse, then I am going to find my way out right now. I’m going to walk myself right back to New York City if that’s what it takes.
I need to get back home. Not just to New York, but to my office. I haven’t missed a day of work in years and I’m not about to start.
