It's an occasion everyone looking top-notch tables and waiters everywhere and lots of people from my past. My best friend from primary school looks great in a pixie hair cut and a shapeless orange dress, her lips slightly goldened but we smile across each other our eyes like repellent magnets never touching sight. Another friend from long ago (hair braided tightly, two miniature dachshunds on bright leashes) seems to be the host We say words towards each other like our throats are sore and speaking is painful and then quickly turn away. Time ticks on in awkward disarray between living and narrating. The tables and waiters move busily and there is the reassuring clink of glassware glint of silver but there is no food anywhere nor any focus. We are all waiting like puppets limbs moving set ready but no script no story just waiting for a reason to be there. When I wake there is a glowing pink bucket-hole between the grey clouds almost bright enough to hurt my eyes and the dog is upside-down paws akimbo snoring lightly. My chest feels the weight of threads unsewn, the limp dis-ease of loose ends. I roll over just to move; needing to find the present; trying to remember coming to bed last night; trying not to let my dream-ache unstitch the day.