Only in dreams

Last night I dreamed that the New Yorker and I were chatting online. Soon after we began to converse, he sent me this message:

"By the way, I actually live in Austin. I work at the Broken Spoke. I'm sorry."

(This is so unlikely for any number of reasons that will become clear once I finish my account of our meeting that it's almost unfair I should deprive you of the laugh by telling you the dream first.)

Now, my reaction in the dream wasn't one of shock or betrayal or anger. No, it was more along the lines of "Thank christ, I REALLY need some good nasty sex tonight." But while I was trying to formulate a more genteel version of this sentiment to write back to him, he sent another message that said, "I presume your silence means you're angry."

I quickly responded that my silence meant something quite different, and for some strange reason that follows the unknown laws of dream logic, we exchanged pictures for a while before arranging to meet and carry on in a suitably deviant way.

I woke up convinced that this had actually happened. It was only when I mentally walked myself through the dream again ("What the hell kind of chat client is that? I've never seen that chat client. Oh. That's because I invented that chat client in my head. Crap.") that I realized I didn't have a date for a lovely hard fuck.

What brought it on? Guilt over the unfinished story? The party I'm supposed to attend tonight but just can't get excited about? Who knows, who knows.

[Edited in the wee hours of Sunday to add: I've since been to the party. I'm very glad I went. Details to follow.]

The dream was so vivid that later in the day when I took a nap, I woke up wondering all over again whether it had actually happened.

Which means that I, like the Angry Police Captain, have spent the rest of the day sighing a lot.

I guess we know what's on my mind.