Happy Place
As the city slept, I found myself locking horns with the beast of my anxiety. It happened a number of times, never as severely as this one. Sirens without and within, I stood reeling in the middle of my living room, hands to my ears, mouth gaping and silent, sweat rilling down my naked torso, dripping off my nose and chin. Tell me this will end, somebody; tell me this will end, anybody.
“It’s three in the morning.”
“I know I know I know. Just talk to me for a few minutes.” Distance and time had estranged us.
“Everything okay?”
“No. Ha. I think I was having a bad dream and I woke up in a panic. Still feeling it.” Like a snake in a bag, I couldn’t see it but knew it was there.
“Do you remember the dream? Sometimes it’s good to remember the dream. It helps.”
“Something was chasing me. A man, an animal. Or at least I was trying to run away from it, but I felt stuck in quicksand. The rest is live coals and foam.”
“Hm. That doesn’t help much. Try thinking good thoughts. Where’s your happy place?”
“My happy place? I don’t really have one.”
“Where do you most like to hang out? Do you go to Starbucks?”
“Starbucks? Ha.” I pictured pennants of bloody meat where customers usually sat with their laptops and lattes. “I go to Aroma. They serve better coffee — not that charred shit — but I don’t like the people there.” Androids. Even the barking of mastiffs could not move them.
“Look. I better go.”
“Okay, just another minute.” The sweat began to dry on my body. My equilibrium slowly returned. More than a minute had passed.
“Okay?”
“Okay, Darlene,” I said.
“It’s not Darlene.”
“It’s not? Then who is it?”
“Go back to sleep, man. We have unfinished business.”
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