Dahlia's Dream. By Wayne H.W Wolfson.

A hostile wind, the sharp pieces of city grit, the bite, water to my eyes.

She wanted to tell me about her dream. The neon lights of the street blend into one another. One big blot whose outline expanded and was rapidly becoming less distinct.

I did not want to.

She was trying to infect me, shed her images, no matter how personal, for a future good nights sleep.

I did not want to.

I tried to put her off with a look, avoiding eye contact. It was no good, she was winding up. As far as she was concerned, it would come, she would be free, then it would be my problem.

No.

I had my own problems. I started running down the street. The night was winding down, she was running out of options. We both knew what we were doing, trying to look casual, she gave chase.

The clock was ticking. She just started shouting it out from her pursuit a few feet behind me. The wind took some of her words, chopping up the narrative, a symbolist poem on the run. Was the dog in there somewhere?

Some people turned as we passed. Did the wind only give them the disregarded words? Which were more important? Where was the dog now?

I was getting winded. I prayed for an acquaintance to happen upon her, that few feet between us, a wavering room in which they could easily enter. Or maybe a stranger needing to know the time.

I kept running. I know she was there, but began worrying less, how much night could possibly be left.

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