This morning, I dreamt in fragments.
First, I was in a glowing futuristic city, drifting between a grand wedding dress boutique and a sprawling Chinese restaurant. Older women – married, elegant, with grown children – would find me, kiss me, linger longer than polite. I felt both shy and thrilled, like a secret indulgence I didn’t ask for but didn’t refuse.
Then the scene shifted.
A massive hotel or cruise ship. Carpeted corridors. Two waves of people moving in opposite directions – one to my left, one to my right. That’s when I saw her.
Iris.
She passed me in the opposing crowd. At the moment our eyes met, I reached out and brushed the back of my fingers across her cheek. It was tender. Real. Her skin warm and soft. She smiled and said, “Thank you.” Then she was gone.
I didn’t look back. I just kept wandering through the towering hallways, half-exploring, half-hoping to run into her again. I never did.
Outside, a violent ocean storm roared. Vancouver Island had vanished; Richmond now stood as a coastal fortress. Through the windows, the sea looked like it wanted to swallow us whole – but the city held firm.
At one point, I became aware I was dreaming. I looked into an alcove and thought, “This is too vivid.” Then I slipped back into unconscious dreaming, like diving into warm water.
In the final fragment, I was aboard a massive vessel – either a spaceship or some sort of luxury ocean liner I owned. Patrick and Tom were there, as were girls I’d never seen before. We flirted. We bantered. But no lines were crossed.
I woke up to the buzzing of my phone. Ryan and my brother had texted.
