a short, waking dream

by plermpt

I was sitting in the conference room for a meeting. It was after 2pm, and my eyes were open. As Annetta and Stephanie discussed the last act of the cut I felt this swell of drowsiness lift my lower lids halfway up my eyeball. For a single second, as I stared at the paused scene of two characters on a bus, I mumbled aloud, “Did you get my clip notes of them making out at breakfast with the sandwiches?”

For the moment I was in the zone my breakfast make out scene was fact, as if I had spent the past six weeks researching these ‘clip notes’, puzzling over what sandwiches these characters (an elderly black woman and the bus driver she passes on the way to her seat) would surround themselves before the painstakingly choreographed make out. This single sentence, ‘Did you get my clip notes of them making out at breakfast with the sandwiches?’ unearthed a lifetime of imagined memory, the subconscious gush making me confident enough to speak up for the first time. Thankfully nobody heard me.

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