Page 1 of So Thirsty

1

S unlight severs me from sleep. I grasp at a fading dream, catch its last breath, quiet and wispy as a cobweb. It feels tragic, but I already forget what the dream was about. Something good. Was I at the mall again? I’m always dreaming about this mall. It’s the same mall, except a little different every time. The stores change, the layout. The fountain to throw loose change into while wishing to strike it rich.

I’ll have to tell Naomi. She also has a dream mall. It’s a cornerstone of our friendship.

Someday we’ll meet in the dream mall, she’ll say.

How do you know it’s the same mall? I’ll ask.

It’s obviously the same mall.

I take her word for it. She speaks with such certainty, it’s impossible not to.

Sometimes when I bring up the dream mall, she’ll go on a rant about capitalism infiltrating our subconscious. Sometimes she’ll try to interpret, say the dream is about choices, about decision paralysis, or insecurity, or identity; then she’ll eulogize her beloved dream dictionary, which she accidentally left on a train when she was a teenager. It was a gift from her favorite aunt, who bought it from a clairvoyant in Prague—irreplaceable.

I’ve never asked her why we’ve yet to find each other there, at the dream mall, what that could mean. I’m sure she’d have an answer. Naomi has an answer for everything.

I yawn, shut my eyes tight. I call the dream back to me, make a silent plea with sleep, but they’re both gone, so I might as well get up.

My morning routine looms. As I lie under the covers, the simple task of brushing my teeth feels monumental. Then everything that comes next. Applying moisturizer, vitamin C serum, SPF, foundation, blush, mascara. All this effort just to look half-decent. To look alive.

And then making coffee, and logging in to work, and checking email. Slathering peanut butter on a slice of almost-stale bread that I’m too lazy to toast. Smiling at Joel when he offers a cheery Good morning.

He snores beside me now, impervious to the morning light, its brightness amplified by a fresh dusting of ultra-white snow. Joel could take a nap in an Apple Store, on the surface of the sun. Doesn’t bother him. He always forgets to close the blinds at night. So do I, but it’s too early for accountability. At seven thirty a.m., there’s only blame.

I roll onto my back, tongue the drool crust at the corners of my mouth. A face materializes, just for a second. There was a man in my dream. His image has already escaped me. Not someone I know, I don’t think. A stranger, maybe? Or a figment of my imagination.

What would have happened between us had the sun not interrupted?

Joel grunts, twitches, then resumes snoring. Sometimes I feel guilty for dream cheating, even though I know I shouldn’t, considering…. But, turns out, seven thirty a.m. is too early to contemplate the complexities of monogamy and the enduring hurt of infidelity.

I get a leg free of the covers, put a cold bare foot on the carpet. I lost a sock in the night. Like the dream, it’s now gone forever. I don’t know where all my missing socks go, but wherever they are, I hope they’re happy.

I thrust myself to standing and stumble into the bathroom, shivering, my knees stiff. I avoid the mirror as best I can. Lately, my reflection has been the bearer of bad news. You’re tired, it tells me. You’re sad. You’re getting older. Last week, I spent over an hour examining a line on my forehead that I could have sworn appeared overnight. The line shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.

It really bothers me.

It instigates these spells of debilitating angst that punctuate a bland, general malaise. Upon the arrival of my new forehead wrinkle, I Googled “existential crisis” directly after I Googled “Botox.” I’m aware that my imminent birthday is exacerbating this angst.

But it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. There’s no cure for getting older, no solution for the harsh seep of time, save for maybe an attitude adjustment, a positive outlook, which I’m incapable of. Best I can do is acquiesce.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I’d talk to Naomi about it, but she couldn’t relate. Her life is a wild, glamorous adventure.

I squirt out some toothpaste, brush my teeth with my back to the mirror, turning to the sink only to spit.

—

“So, I know you hate surprises,” Joel says, scooping some coffee grounds into a refillable pod. He pops it into the Keurig and turns to me, rubbing his stubble like he always does when he’s nervous.

“I hope that’s the end of your sentence,” I say, and lick a knife clean of peanut butter, then stuff it into the dishwasher, which is somehow already full. “I emptied this last night. I know I did. Do we have a ghost?”

“A ghost that uses all our dishes while we sleep?”

“Yeah,” I say. “A midnight snacker. A hungry ghost.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Sloane.”

“I’m haunted by chores! Also—sorry—there’s no more milk.”