Last night I dreamed that I met Alison, by chance, wandering across her property as she prepared for a party.
“By chance” seems improbable, doesn’t it? Skirting the boundary of her backyard, wouldn’t it be likely that I might see her?
But in my dream I stopped, as still as a deer detecting detection. Then tried to escape unseen, hustle-walking away from the scene. The scene? Alison appeared to be setting up for a costume party, stuffing a line of men into Tweedle Dee/Dum costumes (Wonderland-like, I know). She saw me, caught up with me without a glimmer of hesitation or apprehension. She looked beautiful, complexion gleaming, tarted up in some kind of dirndle and full skirt. She seemed confident and natural to my awkwardness and skittishness. It did not follow the script of the long dreamed-about confrontation that would have me the victor, she the vanquished. We squabbled. I don’t recall what was said but I was angry and I threatened to expose her to her gathering party guests. I shouted into the group: “Alison had an affair with…” but she cut in. “This is the wife of Joe, the guy I was having sex with,” she said over me in tones that were merry, even mocking. The party guests looked at me with disinterest, then carried on with their mingling.
“No one cares,” Alison said to me softly, as if we were co-conspirators. “Everyone is tired of that story.”