In my dream I’m a girl, but otherwise I’m recognisably myself. I’m pedalling my bicycle down Taylor Street here in Saskatoon when Tom Cruise pedals up from behind.
He recognises me as he passes. “Hey, I got that email of yours, I’ve been meaning to reply,” he lies politely.
“Oh, that’s alright.”
We pedal along together, making slightly strained small-talk. We stop at an intersection. After a pause indicating we’ve run out of things to chat about, I say, “Well, I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”
He pedals across the road. But I was expecting him to turn at the intersection and he was expecting me to turn, and now I have to follow him, awkwardly, a few metres behind. He notices that I’m following him and slows down so I can catch up. “Where you headed?” he says.
“Just back to my mom’s place,” I say.
“You eaten?”
“No, I was just gonna heat up some soup or something.”
“You wanna go for a hot dog at that place by the video store?”
“Sure,” I say. Tom Cruise and I don’t have much in common, and I think he’s kind of an arrogant dope, but in his cocksure way he’s letting on that he’s lonely. As for me, though I don’t find him attractive, I’m flattered to be seen in the company of this big movie star. As we pedal along I keep glancing at the people in the cars that pass, wondering if they’re noticing me, homely me, riding side by side with Tom Cruise. But no-one seems to recognise him.
So we pedal off to the hot dog place.
M.
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Previous dream journals have featured Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and the novels of Thomas Hardy.
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