Night time (part 2)

Ok, I’ll have to describe it eventually. Beware, that’s going to be ridiculous. I suppose that’s why I’m delaying it so much, I can’t get myself to face it. I know there’s no reason to be upset about it but I can’t explain it. It’s not about the events, it’s about the overlap between dream world and real world. The same uneasiness you find in A Nightmare on Elm Street. See what I mean? So. Deep inside I don’t know what truly happened or didn’t. I’ll just describe it as I seem to remember it.

I went to bed early yesterday. I was knackered, my house wouldn’t heat up so all I could think off was tucking in in bed with a good book. I love my house by the way, it’s an awesome duplex with the kitchen and living room downstairs and the bedroom and bathroom upstairs. Small terraced house but perfect for a single woman. I don’t need more rooms, it feels like a proper living space since it’s on two floors. I like how even though quite small, it feels like a grown up space, not a student accomodation. The downside is: because up and downstairs communicate, it’s one single space with no doors to block the heat then the living room gets pretty chilly in winter. Well, to put it straight it’s freezing cold when I come back from work in the evening these days. Especially since the open kitchen is an extension which was build as a veranda. It looks fantastic on sunny days or in spring when all the trees blossom but again. Even chillier in winter. So anyway, doing it again, escaping the problem, not getting to the heart of it. I went to be bed early. As it turned I didn’t read much and quickly started to doze off, but I tried to fight it. I didn’t want to wake up all sharp and fresh at five the next morning. Already I got in that strange mood of sleeping and not, reading a sentence and finishing it in a dream, mixing up the story I was reading and the events of the day. I kept on hearing distant clicking sounds, faint scraping or something. It was a windy night, I was confusing dream and reality again. And I even did this thing I hate: the dream within a dream where you dream you woke up. Nothing messes me up with me as much as that.

Eventually I woke up and got up. For real. At least that’s what it felt like. Brrr it was cold outside of the bed so I slipped in my woolen dressing gown, the ugly but warm one. And in my knackered slippers, same style. Yeah baby, that’s the beauty of single life. I had to go downstairs, there was something in the kitchen, I could hear it. I checked around, I needed some kind of weapon. Handbag? useless. Bedside lamp? maybe. Glass of water? I could hurt myself. A pile of books to throw away? I like my books too much. Eventually I opted out for the iron, blunt enough and it’s got a good grip. Perhaps the power cable could also come in handy one way or another. I was trying to retrace my steps mentally and check whether I had closed the door properly. If I had not, one of the neighbourhood cats could have got in and that’s what would be messing about in the kitchen. Like that black and white one, the one which gnawed on my gammon last summer. He knows the way that one.

I soon realized I wouldn’t have to worry about a hissing cat resisting my authority when I saw the shadow of man. Holy crap, there’s a man in my kitchen, what am I going to do? The landline phone is in the living room, if I shout he’ll hear me before the neighbours do, I don’t want to lock myself up in the bathroom like the stupid girl who dies in the movie and my mobile’s in my jacket on the coat stand next to the entrance. Shitshitshitshitshit. My heart was pounding and my skin tingled in waves. Awake or not I can tell that felt real. I went down a few steps to try and catch the man’s face. And then I saw the whole of him. He was wearing an apron. ‘I kiss better than I cook’. And he was making an omelette, visibly trying to beat the eggs as discreetly as he could. He looked agitated, always checking towards the stairs so I had to spy on his reflection instead. He poured the beaten eggs in the preheated frying pan, added salt and pepper and fumbled in my cupboard while it was cooking. By the time the omelette was ready he had laid the table for himself and when he sat down in front of it he suddenly relaxed with a blissful, relieved smile on his face. For a second there he seemed like the happiest man on earth. He quickly ate up, checking around nervously again.

All that time I just sat in the stairs and I couldn’t do a thing. I was fascinated, stunned even. What on earth was it all about? Could I be dreaming of a man preparing his dinner in my kitchen? Once he finished he cleaned the table, did all the dishes and wipe everything dry to put it away in the cupboards, threw all the rubbish in a carrier bag which he put in a backpack along with his eggs and pepper. He then got to the french window, put his shoes back on (yes, he had removed them), sneaked out and kneeled outside the door. He fiddled at the lock which went ‘click’ and vanished in the night.

I can’t remember how I got back to bed. Could that be because I never got up, because this is too silly to be real. Beside that’s so typical of my dreams. A hint of absurdity and large measure of ordinary, it would fit. And yet… As I said there’s that feeling deep inside that it took place for real. If that was to happen again, I need to find something, some way to prove myself it really happened.