A key tumbled in a lock. A knob turned, a door squeaked, and I heard a
hyperactive little dog’s paws prancing on a tile
floor. A man’s voice said to the dog, “Get down, Gretchen.” The voice
sounded grumpy, and I was on that man’s sofa, about to be discovered.

Everything was ridiculous, and I thought, “This has to be a
dream,” so I willed myself to wake up, but I didn’t wake up. I scrunched my face and tried harder, and then I literally
pinched my arm. When I still didn’t wake up, I bit my arm, and
hard, but still I was in some stranger’s living room.

OK. So this was
reality, a shitty reality. My arm hurt from the bite, and I listened in
the dark as a man
walked around in his house, petted his dog, went into his kitchen, and
rattled some dishes making something to eat. Any moment, he might come
into the living room to eat his sandwich or whatever and watch
TV, and find me on his couch, and then I’d have some explaining to do,
to him and to myself.

He walked right past the living room, though, without noticing me in
the dark, and went into another room. I heard him put a plate down and
open a beer or a Coke. If he was settled and eating there, I thought I
might be able to sneak out of the house.

My heart pounding hard and fast, I
very quietly got up from the couch, and took tender, oh-so-quiet
footsteps down the hall, toward the door. The floorboards didn’t creak, the dog didn’t bark, the man
didn’t come out of his bedroom, and I carefully, quietly closed the
door behind me. I had escaped.

Relieved but still desperate to get farther away, I walked halfway home
before shivering and remembering that I’d left my jacket on the couch, in that house
I didn’t know. And my wallet was in the pocket.

I stood on the sidewalk, terrified and trying to decide what to do.
At any moment, that man might wander into his living room, find my jacket
on his couch, with my wallet inside, and he’d call the cops, or maybe
just come to my apartment and beat me up.

So I’d have to return, sneak
inside his house again, breaking & entering and tiptoeing around while
he’s in the next room, and get my jacket, and sneak out a second time. What else could I do?

I started walking back to that stranger’s house, but circumstances
were so ridiculous that I told myself, again, it had to be a dream —
an impossible, insane dream. I’d never sneak into someone else’s
house. And if I did, I sure wouldn’t fall asleep on their couch
like Goldilocks. And if I got away, I wouldn’t forget my damned jacket.
This is not plausible.

And that’s when I woke up, in my own recliner in my own apartment, still
panicked but now also furious because I’d known it was a dream, and
told myself to wake up, and bitten my arm, but nothing had interrupted the nightmare. I clicked the lamp on, looked at
my arm — no bite marks, no pain. I’d only dreamed of biting my arm?

Even after typing all this, my heart is still racing. I’m
almost as freaked out as when I first woke up, thinking I might get
caught red-handed doing something I’d never do and didn’t do, wouldn’t
do. Hell, I probably wouldn’t go to someone’s house even if I’d been
invited.

But mostly I’m angry because — Aren’t there rules in Dream
Land? It’s completely unfair, when you know it’s a dream, to still be stuck in
the dream. I am
pissed off about it, but I’m an atheist so there’s no place to file
a complaint. 
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