IN DREAMS

The morning began as it usually does when the two of us have the day off-- we shower together, complain about the cold, and shake the sleep from our heads. On this particular morning, I had been jerked from a sound sleep by another schizophrenic dream; the kind that weaves quietly one way, and then takes a troubling shift in an unexpected direction. I have these dreams a lot.
I had always thought the jarring images that injected themselves into otherwise pleasant dreams were just my subconscious's way of chastising me for indulging in thoughts I wouldn't dare entertain in the waking day. It was my mind's way of guarding my subconscious adventures. It was telling me that I was synaptically involved in unacceptable behavior, and there would be a stop to it.
The dream was written on my face as we showered and exchanged a soapy bottle of shampoo. He asked why I seemed troubled, and I smiled quickly, dismissing his concerns. I told him that I was just recalling a dream from the night before-- an overall very sweet, playful dream about the two of us.
In the dream, I was working in my cool gray office, and as I did so he slipped in quietly, stealing me away to an abandoned room where we had an amorous exchange. His lip curled with pleasure at this admission. It always seemed any sexual encounters in my dreams were always far more palpable-- far more physically congruent and effortless-- than could ever be attained in waking life.
I continued, explaining how at the end of our romp we became aware of a security camera that had captured our indiscretion. In a desperate attempt to circumvent what would surely be dismissal-worthy trespass, I grabbed a pair of scissors, and began to hack at the wires that fed power to the small black device. The instant the blades severed the insulation of the brightly colored wires, an unmistakable pain shot through my arm, and the scissors clattered loudly onto the floor. As I stared dumbly at my aching forearm, the skin and muscle began to pull away from the bone in three delicate sections of cleaved meat.
At this revelation, he flinched, and his face contorted. He told me to stop talking about it, and I did, a little hurt by what had only been an innocent account of my brain's own nastiness. This kind of dream is not uncommon for me, and I felt as though he thought it an unhealthy exercise in the involuntary. We showered silently after that, and didn't speak again that morning. I've decided not to share my dreams anymore.