I knew from the first or second time we drank that I’d always remember the way liquor brushed her face with the seamless colors of autumn, as if she were home from a day of sun, eager perhaps, to see me. With calm eyes she often told me about her dreams. Sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes morning, or many days after. I was always featured. She said it took time to find the right memory of us to combat the perception of me her mind forged in sleep. I was a fascist, a petty tyrant, or a frightening hobbled animal that spoke in translation. I was anxiety materialized. When she found the right memory of us, of me, to pit against the form I took in her dream, she would let the two loose in a back room of her consciousness. She was the only member of the audience, a position that put pressure on her, and a burden I couldn’t share.
- a hum by spencermadsen
