The Cartography of Hope

Tell me your dream, said Geoffrey. He always said that. To me, to his wife, to random strangers on the internet. And we all did. He had been so long in this hospital room, sharing his life with the life support machines, that his voice had gained some of the hypnotic dullness, the quiet menace of hospital sounds. You didn't want to disturb his calm; you didn't want to know what would happen then.

So I told him about the bridge that was a coffee shop, and about the dogs, and about the castle far away bathed by purple light. The castle interested him the most.

"Purple? Are you sure? It wasn't green?"

I shook my head. "It was purple. I looled like, you know, a nipple."

I was embarrassed, but he nodded, more to himself than to me. "Maybe it was at a different time. Can't be sure, but it could be an intersection point." He was typing on his laptop, frowning as lines crossed or failed to. I hoped he wouldn't ask.

He did.

"Did you see Brian?"

I wanted to say I see him now, why can't you?. I always want to say that, and I never do.

"No," I said.

Geoffrey shrugged and put a hand over Brian's knee. "Don't worry, son," he said to the comatose man. "I'll find you soon. The map is coming along nicely."

I excused myself and went away. It was rude, but Geoffrey didn't mind. To him I wasn't his son's fiancee, I was just another dreamspace scout, and the sooner I went home, the sooner I would dream again.

I dreamed of Brian that night. He was mine alone, and we lived in a dream, and later I would lie to his father again.

.finis.