Always Dreaming of Bicycles
Last night I had a dream you invited me over. You haven’t in a while and I miss it—your room and your things and your posters. Your mirrors. I have dreams like that a lot but I never make it to your house—I am either too happy, realize I am dreaming, and wake up, or it quickly turns into a nightmare. The latter happened last night.
You were standing in my driveway and for some reason, you were on a bike (I find myself dreaming about bicycles a lot) and just after you invited me over—as soon as those words left your lips—an angry man appeared with a gun.
“That’s just a water gun,” you told him.
It did, in fact, look plastic. It was pink and blue and the man frowned, clutching the trigger. This whole time he had the gun pointed at you, but then, perhaps realizing my fear—I felt your kind invitation quickly dying along with you—he pointed the gun at me. “Oh yeah?” the man said.
“Yeah,” you dared him.
It wasn’t a water gun. The bullet went clean through me and I’m sure you gasped out loud and I’m sure the sound of the gun firing echoed through the neighborhood, but I was already awake in my bed, already sitting up, already looking at the clock.