Dream a little Dream
Alan stood in the doorway of the break room, hands clasped in front of him, watching Miranda as she prepared two cups of coffee. He imagined what she was wearing under her black leather skirt and red sweater: he hoped it was black lacy panties and bra which would look so startling against her pale, pale skin. He was glad to see she was wearing the same shoes as yesterday; he loved those shoes. She opened the refrigerator. He tilted his head to study her legs and the sway of her hips; overall he would give her 8 out of 10 for the whole ensemble. His mind wandered. He imagined pressing her none too gently against the refrigerator and...
Miranda's back stiffened; her hand on the open door. She felt a definite presence. She slowly turned to look over her shoulder, "Good morning, Alan," she said, taking the cream from the fridge. "How are you today?"
He drifted back from his daydream. He stood close to her, inhaling her scent, savoring it.
"The leather skirt was a good choice, I think. There's just something about a woman in leather. I believe for the whole package today you get an 8."
She smiled, shaking her head. She poured sugar packets into the coffee, "You're incorrigible; but apparently easily entertained."
"Very easy," he touched her skirt, lightly.
She stirred the coffee, chuckled to herself, shaking her head, she said, "You're a strict judge." She handed him a coffee.
"Thank you. I used to rate on a 5 point scale, but I feel the 10 point scale is a more generous system—there's more leeway."
"Sounds like you've put a lot of thought into it."
"Indeed."
"Have you considered a hobby?" She sipped from her mug.
"This is my hobby."
"That makes sense. You can take it with you, do it anywhere," she teased.
He held his hands up as if to say, "Exactly."
She leaned against the counter, cupping her mug with both hands to feel its warmth. "I guess then I just have to wait until you decide to share what the criteria are so I can try for a better score."
"Ah, an overachiever; that's very disappointing, Miranda. I had hoped for better from you."
"What's wrong with wanting to achieve a goal?"
"It just makes you so predictable and a people-pleaser. Those are not attractive traits. I had really hoped you were more of an independent thinker."
"First I think you'll find I'm very selective about the people I attempt to please and that I please for a reason. Second I'm not predictable. Third, there are some things worth the time and energy."
He continued, "You should be happy. 8 is a very good score. I think it's the highest I've given to date. Of course, there may be a way to earn a higher score…"
She interrupted, "Like extra credit."
"Sort of. All you have to do is tell me," his voice lowered, velvety, he was inches from her ear. He ran his fingers down her arm to feel the texture of her sweater, "If you are wearing anything black and lacy underneath that leather skirt because that would be the perfect compliment to the outfit and might in fact give you the score you're aiming for."
She smiled mischievously, "I think I'll let you play with that one. It'll give you something to think about today when you get bored with your work."
"So hard to get will be the game. I'm patient."
"Alan, you should know, I don't play games."
He sipped his coffee, with a contented sigh, looking at his coffee, "Perfect."
A brief, comfortable silence fell between them.
He broke the silence first, "You know, I had the most delicious dream about you last night."
"I'm intrigued. Do tell."
"Well, in this dream," he perked up a little, "Your head, face and hair were all the same but your body was made of cream cheese."
"Cream cheese," she said flatly.
"Yes."
"So was I mobile or confined to a platter?"
"Oh, you were mobile. But I had to keep you in a really cold room so you wouldn't melt."
"Oh. That's thoughtful."
"And whenever I got hungry I just…dipped into you."
"I see."
"And right before I woke up I had just taken a bagel and run it up your thigh and…"
"So," she interrupted, "Short version: you ate me."
"Yes. But, when I ate you, you regenerated so that nothing was missing," he said happily.
She nodded her head, "Uh-huh, so I was an endless supply of cream cheese?"
"You had a light hazel-nutty flavor."
"I'm just curious, what was my reaction to your eating me?"
"If I recall, you seemed to enjoy it immensely; you were quite…amorous about it, lots of moaning and writhing."
"Interesting," she paused to collect herself, "You sure I wasn't moaning or writhing in pain?"
"Oh, I'm quite certain."
"Okey-dokey." They fell silent, sipping their coffee, "Alan?"
"Hm?" He said, swallowing his coffee.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're an odd man?"
"Yes."
"Just so you're aware."
"Painfully so."
Her eyes met his; his eyes were not cruel, but then he seemed to have a capacity for veiling them well.
She smiled, holding back laughter.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing," she said, shaking her head. "Nothing at all."
"I think there was something. Tell me. You're laughing."
"Really, Alan, it was nothing." She returned the cream to the fridge.
"You're a horrible liar, Miranda."
She lightly took his hand and led him from the break room, "I think it's time we get back to work. Don't you?"
"I think it's more important that you tell me why you were looking at me in that way."
She laughed aloud, dropping his hand, "I never knew you to be so insecure."
He tried to back paddle, "I am not insecure; but when people, especially a woman…"
"Alan, really, let it drop. I wasn't thinking anything. I'm just a mindless secretary, a bubblehead. I have no thoughts of my own. I think what you tell me to think because you're my boss."
"HA!" he scoffed loudly, a couple of people looked at him as he passed.
She smirked and flipped her hair, walking slightly ahead of him.
"Now who's incorrigible?"
"Oh, was it a competition? I wasn't aware."
"Miranda…"
She stopped and turned to him.
"So you really want to know?"
"Yes, I do."
"Do you realize how juvenile you're being?"
"Yes, I do, but I don't care."
She put a hand on her hip, "I was thinking that you look better in gray and dark blue suits than brown."
His brows furrowed as he considered what she said. She turned and headed to her desk.
He hesitated and then followed after her, "I don't believe you."
She shrugged and tapped the papers on the desk before flipping through them, "Irrelevant."
He cocked his head.
She paused and looked up at him, quizzically, "You know…" then stopped.
"What?"
"No, I don't want to make it worse…"
"What?"
"Well it's just that you're in rare form today. You seemed so cocksure when I first met you…"
He laughed nervously, "Cocksh…" he shook his head and laughed again; she had rattled him a little. "I'm plenty…"
"Oh, I have no doubt. I was just teasing, you know. I'm sure you're…" she let her eyes slide down and quickly up, "more than enough." She handed him a folder. "Mr. Graham will be here in about 45 minutes; you may want to look over this." She patted his cheek and walked off to find the law books she needed.
He shook his head and went into his office; she was winding him up and he knew it—and what's more—he liked it. He tried to get his mind off her by delving into the file.
She entered his office and laid a paper on his desk, "Alan?"
He looked up.
"As for the extra credit you offered…"
"Yes."
"How can you be so sure I'm wearing anything at all under my skirt?"
His mouth dropped a little then he snapped it shut.
"By the way, Mr. Graham is here. I'm sending him in."
******************
After his meeting with Mr. Graham, Alan came out and handed the file back to Miranda, "Send an invoice to Mr. Graham for an hour."
"Will do. Also, the Haskins deposition is taking place in the conference room today at 1. So would you like me to order your lunch in?"
"Yes."
She looked up at him. His groin tightened. "What'cha want?"
His mind had wandered a little to the skirt; he snapped back, "Heh?"
She said slowly, "What do you want to eat?"
He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the image of her seated below him, looking up at him… "Um, steak, potato, broccoli." He was suddenly hypersensitive to her closeness.
"How do you want it?"
"Pardon?" he said shocked with his misunderstanding.
She batted her eyes, confused, "Your steak, Alan, how do you want it?"
"Medium." He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to the tight spot between his eyes.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I just…my head hurts."
He went back to his office and shut the door.
Night descended, too early, as is its habit in the winter months; Miranda looked at the clock on the computer: 6:00 pm.
She cleared off her desk and gathered up her things in a pile. She entered Alan's office. The office was dark but for one light on the desk.
He looked up, "Headed home?"
"Yes, but I need your signature on these documents so I can take care of them first thing in the morning."
"Certainly," he reached out for the papers.
"Do you always work so late?"
He briefly glanced over each one before putting a quick, scratchy signature at the bottom.
"Usually."
"Do you ever make time for a life?"
"I slip some time in every now and then." He handed the papers back to her.
She put the papers in her inbox. Alan gathered up his things and stood his doorway frozen, holding his coat and briefcase in both hands, head cocked to one side as he watched her lean over her desk to log off her computer. His eyes slid up the back of her legs; he wished his hand could feel those rounded calves, right up to the skirt and then under.
"Miranda," he said.
"Yes?" She started to put on her coat. He took it from her and helped her into it. She flipped her hair from underneath and he gently smoothed it back into place for her.
She faced him as she buttoned her coat.
"I assume you eat dinner."
"Usually."
"And that you haven't eaten it yet."
"Not yet. I was going home to do just that."
"Since I don't like eating alone, I was wondering if you would care to join me for dinner." His voice lowered to a seductive grumble, "All you have to do is just sit there, listen to my stories, pretend I fascinate you. And, if you feel so compelled, you can pretend you're having a good time."
She suppressed a smile. "Where did you have in mind?"
They started down the hall together. He said, "I was thinking Indian. I know this lovely little place on Main."
"I love Indian; it's so sensual."
"Exactly."
He held the door for her, placed his fingertips lightly on the small of her back as she stepped out into the cold Boston air.
Masala on Main was a small, dimly lit, lushly decorated restaurant.
The scent of earthy, musky Indian spices filled the air. They were led to a table in a far corner. Alan helped Miranda take off her coat and held her chair for her.
"What wine would you like with your dinner?" He asked, not bothering to open a wine list.
"Well," Miranda said, "I think a Riesling."
"Nice choice," Alan handed the waiter the wine list and said, "We'll have your best Riesling."
Moments later, the waiter returned with a bottle and poured the wine. Alan swirled it and inspected it like a connoisseur of fine wines. He sampled it. She was impressed with his finesse. Most of the men she knew wouldn't know a Reisling from Champagne.
"Impeccable. You have great taste."
"My favorite merlot, but I think this food calls for something lighter."
They ordered their food.
"So, Miranda," Alan said, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs, "What are your dreams?"
She swallowed her wine and held her wine glass from the top, allowing it to dangle above the table. "That's quite a question…and so to the point and out of the blue."
"Not really. We were talking about this yesterday. I told you mine, but I never got to hear yours. You said you were following a dream. I want to know what it is."
She set her glass on the table and put her hands in her lap. She felt awkward under his steady gaze looking into her rather than at her.
"I don't…" she shook her head shyly, tucking her hair behind one ear.
He was glad to see he had rattled her this time, "Come now," he smiled, "You're not going to get shy on me now are you?"
"Dreams are silly; they're unrealistic."
"Nonsense; sometimes dreams are all we have to hold onto, the last shred of hope for the despaired."
"They are also intensely personal."
"Oh, I see. It's not that you don't have them—you just don't want to share them. What are you afraid will happen if you share—they won't come true?"
"You mock me?"
"I'm not mocking you, Miranda."
"Are you afraid it will change my estimation of you?"
"I don't know what I'm afraid of—or even that I'm afraid. It's kind of like your bedroom, you know?"
"My bedroom?"
"No any bedroom. I don't go around showing everyone my bedroom."
"I'm sure you believe you just explained it."
"You think I'm crazy."
"No, I'm fascinated. Please continue."
"Well, it's only after I get to know someone really well that I let him into my bedroom."
"So it's an issue of trust?"
"Yes, but more than that…it's about intimacy, too."
His eyebrows raised.
"Not just sexual intimacy—just intimacy."
"But it is trust—at its heart."
She thought for a second then nodded, "Yes. Trust is at the heart of intimacy."
"But intimacy isn't always at the heart of trust."
She cocked her head, "You're right—and it's about safety."
"You need to feel safe in order to trust, in order to extend intimacy."
"Yes."
"You need all that just to tell someone about your dreams?"
She shrugged awkwardly, "It's hard to explain. I guess when it comes to that it feels too close to the bone and if I were to reveal what I most hope for I run the risk of…"
"Insecurity."
"Excuse me?"
"You feel insecure. You're afraid someone will think you're silly and incapable of achieving your dream because you feel you couldn't live up to the high expectations you dream of and what's more you feel you're silly for even thinking about whatever it is you dream up and that there's no possible way you have enough talent, intelligence—or whatever you need—to fulfill that dream."
She swallowed hard and looked down at the table. The server came and took their order.
"You're quite…astute," she said.
He sipped his wine, set down his glass and looked at her evenly, "It's my job."
"Can we change the subject, please?"
He enjoyed watching her cheeks grow pink; it had been a long time since he had seen someone blush.
"Ah, it seems I've hit a nerve. Well, perhaps another time. I'll get to know you better and try again later."
Miranda was thankful when the food came to divert their attention and his piercing gaze.
A silence fell over the dinner.
"So, what does Alan Shore like to do in his spare time?"
He chuckled as he washed his food down with wine. "I don't have much spare time—especially these days. But when I do I like the usual stuff: reading, travel…"
"And cream cheese women."
He laughed, "Yes, and that, too."
A silence.
"What are you reading?"
"I'm sorry?" she said.
"Why?"
"Because what we read says a lot about us. I'm trying to get a glimpse of the real Miranda Houston."
"I doubt you've heard of it."
"Try me."
She shook her head, a little self-consciously, "Lord Byron's Don Juan."
"Byron? Indeed!" He said surprised.
"So you have heard of him!"
"Of course. I mean I haven't read him since college, but still…"
"I'm truly surprised, Alan, and tickled pink that you know…"
"Byron. He's a man much after my own heart." He sat back in his chair, gazing at her, "Just as I suspected, Miranda, there's more to you than seductive high heels and leather skirts."
She chuckled, "I'm glad you recognize that."
"I do, though it's difficult when I'm so distracted by them."
"Yes, but do you appreciate it?"
"The high heels and leather skirt? Immensely."
"No, the other," she rolled her eyes.
"Oh that. Absolutely. In fact, I find it quite…refreshing."
"So, Alan, does that tell you what you wanted to find out me?"
"Not everything, of course, but I managed to glean volumes about you."
"What are you reading?"
"What makes you think I'm reading anything?"
She glared at him in disbelief.
"Is it that obvious?"
She nodded, "But I assure you there's nothing wrong with that. Do you think I would be here if it were otherwise?"
His eyebrows shot up as amusement spread across his face, "Good to know. I'm reading Pathologies of Power by Paul Farmer."
"Sounds fascinating. What's it about?"
"It's about how the very poor are marginalized all over the world and cannot receive the same health care middle class and wealthy people receive; therefore healthcare for the poor is inadequate and many times non-existent."
"Wow. Powerful stuff. Do you always do this, Alan?"
"Do what?"
"Carry the weight of the world on your shoulders?"
He swallowed the last of his Reisling, "Is there another way?"
"It's good to know at least one person cares."
He leaned on the table and said reached for her hand. She place her hand in his and he stroked it with his thumb, "I know this wonderful little club full of smooth bluesy-jazz, where we can get a couple drinks or four, dance a little, and maybe lose ourselves in a night of debauchery."
"Sounds delightful."
Alan held the door for her as she entered the Quarter Club. There were candles on every table, smooth live jazz; a pretty singer in a white dress and a white flower in her dark hair; large round black leather booths lined the walls. Miranda felt as though she had been transported back in time to the forties. They ordered drinks: scotch for him, whiskey sour for her.
"A whiskey girl?"
"That surprises you?"
"It does. I figured you for a mojito or maybe an apple-tini type."
Miranda laughed. Alan liked her laugh, a little throaty, musical. "Something tells me this won't the first time I surprise you."
"Something tells me you're right."
"And I hate martinis by the way."
He chuckled, "Duly noted."
"So, Miranda, where are you from?"
"All over."
"Your accent says you're from the south. So I've narrowed it to that region at least."
"I was an air force brat: Born in North Carolina, moved all over, never in one place for more than a few years. When my father retired, he moved us Kentucky. My parents are still there; they own a horse farm. I stayed there for a few years, until I went to college in Seattle then I transferred to a college in Colorado to finish my degree."
"Sounds like you've had an exciting life."
She shrugged, "It's had its moments; but the thing about growing up on the move is that it's hard to stay still."
"You say that as if you regret it."
"I guess I do, a little. It's lonely when you can't stay still."
"Indeed."
"What about you?"
"I've always lived in Massachusetts."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
"Not at all. If I have a desire to see a place, I visit--though there's little attraction to it when you realize people are the same everywhere you go. And there's something comforting about coming home."
"I suppose. So you're capable of staying still."
"Not really. I've done a lot of moving around, too…in my own way."
"I see."
"So where is home?"
"The Four Seasons."
"The hotel?"
"Yes."
"That's not exactly home, is it?"
"Not exactly."
"What happened to your real home?"
"I sold it."
"Why?"
"Let's just say it quit being home."
His steady, icy gaze told her it would be best not to pry right now. She didn't want to spoil the evening. Besides, she was beginning to feel her first two whiskey sours and she wanted to dance.
"Just a sec," she said, jumping up. She ran up to the singer, barefoot, leaving her heels under the table, and whispered something in her ear. The singer smiled and nodded. Miranda dropped some money into the tip jar on the piano.
She trotted back to Alan as her song request, "Dream a Little Dream," began. She mocked a gentleman asking a lady to dance, "Will you honor me with a dance?"
"Of course, but please allow me to lead."
"This time."
She led him to the floor. He took her in his arms and held her close, one hand pressed into the small of her back, the other holding her hand near his chest.
"You won't step on my toes will you, Alan?"
"I'll do my best."
She felt safe. She hadn't felt this way in a long time. She enjoyed his touch, his closeness. He looked down into her face.
"It's probably a good thing you like to move, Miranda. I think you'll very soon feel compelled, as others have before you, to move again—if you choose to deal much with me, that is."
She cocked an eyebrow, "Maybe. But when I moved to Boston I promised myself I had to stay at least five years."
"Why five?"
"Because that would have been the longest I've lived anywhere. I guess I feel if I can do five years I can do a lifetime. I mean, a lifetime is just a bunch of five years back to back, right?"
He laughed, "You have an interesting outlook."
She shrugged and laid her cheek against his shoulder. She hummed along softly with the song. He thought she had a lovely voice, wondered if she sang in the shower. He finally decided she was a shower singer; he found himself desiring more than anything to hear her singing in his shower as he lay in bed after a night with her; as he lay there half asleep thinking about what her naked body looked like in the shower, her voice would trickle out to him and his eyes would open to the early morning sun slicing through the gaps in the curtains, tinting everything gold. Basking in his simple fantasy, he gently rested his cheek against her head, closed his eyes and pulled her closer.
They danced and drank and talked until the club closed and they had to leave.
She was too drunk to put her shoes on by herself. She shoved her feet into them and Alan lifted her feet into his lap and buckled the straps for her. He resisted the urge to run his hands up her legs. Miranda didn't want the night to end. They stepped into the sharp, cold night. The street was lifeless but for a few stragglers abandoning the closing bars and the random cars passing by. They huddled close together, outside the bar.
"I don't think I'm in the best condition to drive," he said.
"You drank that much?" She leaned toward him unsteadily. "You seem fine to me."
"Apparently. And you definitely can not drive," he laughed. "We'll take a cab. Where do you live?"
"Rosemont."
He stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. They climbed into the warm darkness.
"Where you guys goin'?" The driver said.
"Rosemont," Alan said and looked at Miranda.
Miranda added, "483, please."
She sat sideways, facing Alan, her head laid against the seat, their knees touching. She closed her eyes she moaned, "I feel sooo…." she giggled.
"Drunk?" He was clearly amused, he leaned close to her.
"I'm not that drunk. I'm just a little…tipsy. But I was going to say light. I love this airy, swirly feeling."
"Tipsy?" Alan chuckled. "I think you passed tipsy several drinks ago."
She giggled. "Don't you feel it?" She looked at him.
"Not really. I feel a little heavy myself; so I guess I must live vicariously."
"I'm going to be so tired tomorrow. You'll take it easy on me won't you?"
"That takes all the fun out of it."
"What if I call in sick?"
"Unacceptable."
She reached out and took his hand; she enjoyed the feel of his solid, masculine hand under hers.
"You have nice hands," she said. "They're so…"
"You should feel them in action."
She put his palm against her cheek and nuzzled it, closing her eyes again.
Over his face passed a mixture of melting passion and predatory lust as he felt her breath against the skin of his hand. She placed a kiss in the center of his palm, licked it a little as her eyes locked with his. His whole body tingled and tightened. He moved his hand down her chin, her neck. She reached out and ran her fingers across his lips. He kissed each finger. She leaned close to him, her lips hovering over his. She wanted to kiss him, but didn't know if she should. He was her boss after all and this was only her second day of employment; it could cause a lot of trouble. He leaned in to take the kiss. She pulled back. Maybe she should wait until she was sober—to be sure she was doing what she really wanted to do.
"Something wrong?"
She smiled crookedly, "No, of course not." She laid her head back on the seat and put her hands over her face; she felt stupid, "I just feel dizzy."
He laughed, "I'd be surprised if you weren't."
The cab came to a stop and the driver looked at them in the rearview mirror and said, "483 Rosemont."
Alan got out and assisted Miranda out of the cab, "I'll walk you to your door."
She hooked her arm in his, leaning heavily on him for support as he held her around the waist.
They stopped at her door. "Well," Alan said, "I think this is good night."
"Yea," she said, searching for her keys in her purse.
He stayed her hand, "That is," he said, placing his hands at the base of her throat, running them along her clavicle, "Unless you want me to come up."
She tingled under his touch. She looked at him steadily, taking his free hand, "Alan I would love for you to come up some night, just not tonight. I don't think I would be much fun passed out. And besides, we're practically strangers."
"The anonymity makes it more thrilling."
"Does it really?" Her tone of voice indicated she didn't believe that and what's more she didn't think he believed it either. "Not tonight, darling."
A sad smile flickered over his face, "That's the nicest rejection I've heard in a while."
"Rejection!" she scoffed, "Whatever. What girl in her right mind would..." swaying, she continued to dig through her purse; she swore under her breath.
"Well, you just rejected me…"
"But," she held up her finger, "I'm not in my right mind, am I?"
He chuckled, "Touché."
She giggled, "Ahhh, français, monsieur? Parlez vous français?"
"Oui," he nodded and took her purse, "Forgive me may I?" He took her purse and rummaged through it for her keys.
"Tres bien…" She giggled, stuffing her hands in her coat pocket. "Ah!" she gasped. He looked up, "Look what I found," she said playfully, pulling the keys from her pocket.
"Good then. Let me have your house key."
She picked through the keys on the chain, holding the keys close to her face to see them through her drunken haze, "Try this one." She held up one key.
He took the key.
She leaned against the brick wall, "Alan, I'm sorry I…"
"Don't apologize, Miranda; you'll ruin it," he said, unlocking the door for her. He continued, "Allow me to believe I've corrupted you. But I must say I'm surprised you aren't comatose. You have an amazing capacity to hold your liquor."
"Yea, some accomplishment."
"It is when you've been on the receiving end of more than one episode of projectile vomiting or all the other little rituals that go with the severely intoxicated."
She laughed, "You're so funny, Alan," she placed her hand on his chest, toyed with the lapel of his coat.
"Alan?" She said, looking up into his face.
"Yes?"
"Thank you for a really wonderful evening."
He looked a little surprised, "And we haven't even slept together yet."
She chuckled. "I'm trying to be serious. I really had a great time tonight." She broke into song: Say 'nighty-night' and kiss me/ Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me/ While I'm alone and blue as can be," she ran her hand down his tie, "Dream a little dream of me…"
"You're intoxicated. You can judge the value of your night better in the sober morning."
She hugged him, "Nighty-night, Alan."
They parted. He smiled warmly on her; he had had a wonderful eveing as well, but he couldn't actually bring himself to say the words; it had been so long since anyone had really piqued his interest, since anyone caused him to think even a little beyond his basest desires--not since Tara. His throat tightened.
He cleared his throat, "Goodnight, Miranda. Sleep well." He took her head in his hands and gently kissed her forehead. He added, "I'll see you in the morning."
She nodded, "Bye, Alan," she disappeared inside.
Alan did dream of her that night—a dream full of her voice and laughter. The sun was bright through his window and she kissed him. Then she disappeared, vanished into thin air and the room filled with a suffocating mist. He smelled his ex-wife's perfume. Miranda appeared, bald, with dark circles under her eyes, but when he looked again it wasn't Miranda; it was his ex-wife. Still he could hear Miranda's laughter, not happy though, haunting. He felt a crushing sadness. He saw her again at work, but she didn't recognize him and when he tried to talk to her he had no voice. He tapped her shoulder, but she didn't know him and she walked away with Brad, her arm hooked in his. She looked at Brad with admiration. Brad's hand slid down to cup her bottom and she kissed Brad. How could she like him of all people? Alan felt angry and hurt. At the end she put a resignation letter on his desk and said, "I'm moving again, Alan." He felt like he couldn't breathe.
Alan's eyes popped open and he stared at a sliver of the white street lights streaming in through the curtain. He felt too disturbed to attempt sleep again. He sat up in the bed and turned on the television. He stared blankly at an infomercial about the sham-wow. When he realized what he was watching, he flipped to CNN. It was already 6 a.m.; there was really no point in going back to sleep. He rolled out of bed and began his day, wishing, for once, his dreams wouldn't come true.