not-so-lucid dreaming « Letters from Grenada

not-so-lucid dreaming

His after work ritual began as soon as he walked in the door, when he’d sit down on the chair in the verandah that looked like wicker but actually was made of fiberglass.

He’d slide his fingers under the laces of his sneakers, which were invariably sparkling bright, white and clean. Slowly, deliberately, he’d pull on the laces, and only when they were fully loosened would he slide the sneakers off his feet.

That’s what he was doing the day he told me about his dream. The dream in which we’d been liming at the beach bar and I’d had too much to drink and refused to come home with him. The dream in which I’d danced with half the guys in the yard, close close. The dream in which I’d cussed him every time he said it was time to go.

“Now why would you do that, babes?” As he asks this he’s still looking down, still working his laces.

“I don’t know, sweetie. Why would I?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.” And that’s when I finally hear the accusation in his voice.

“You… You want me to explain my behavior? In YOUR dream?”

He blinks and nods slowly and I know he’s dead serious, I know he believes in the power and truth of dreams and loup-garou and obeahmen. So I know, I know I shouldn’t laugh but I can’t help it, because all I can hear is Harvey Keitel saying,

You shoot me in a DREAM, you better wake up and apologize!

I lose control of my laughter. It spills out of my mouth and leaks from the corners of my eyes, then floats on the cool night breeeze, up up until it’s carried out over Westerhall Bay. My mirth is so heavy that in spite of himself and the overproof rum in his blood, he finally cracks a smile, stands up, kisses my mouth, roughing my lips with his beard, and goes to the kitchen to see if I’ve seasoned the meat the way he taught me.