The Pair

I am sputtering, speechless. It is something that I can’t remember. The truth of it is still there. My mind grasping at the sand falling into the hourglass of oblivion as the important shreds of the dream are whisked away by consciousness. I am disappointed, but I am awake. My hand reaches to the right where my dream journal should be only to hit something soft. Pleather. This isn’t my bed and my eyes pop open. Bacon. The smell of it is everywhere, cloying. The sound of it sizzling fills the air and my stomach turns at the thought of food.

 

I am on the couch, in my living room, that much is clear. The VHS mountain that grows every month is splayed out in front of the television, a comforting annoyance for it’s familiarity. Still the panic of the dream has me, even without context. Dawn has arrived, but only just.

 

I rub my face, my thoughts on how soon I could get a cup of coffee within me when it catches my eye. The bird. The brass bird that existed no where but within my dream is sitting, impossibly, on the bookshelf. It is tarnished and would be unremarkable to anyone except myself. It is the key. Without even thought to the movement, I get up and move toward it, my hand reaches to touch something that moments before had been only a figment of my imagination. It is cold and lifeless and I am almost disappointed at how plain it seems.

 

I heft it in my hands, the sizzling sounds of breakfast being prepared in the other room a soft symphony of reality keeping me grounded. As I turn the beautiful brass casting over in my palms, a sensation washes over me, not unlike the feeling I had in the dream. I wanted  it. I had wanted this bird more than anything else and here it is. The curves are beautiful, grace in simplicity with an eye for anatomy. It looks like it belongs on top of a cane and I wouldn’t be surprised if it had come from the back booth of a flea market. My longing for this thing is reduced now that I possess it, and I realize I need the second piece. Another, like this, but not exactly. Similar in craftsmanship and beauty. Ignorable completely and completes me entirely. I need it. The weight in my hand is not enough and I feel a panic as I look around in hopes that the other is here. When it isn’t immediately available I am becoming more frantic, holding the winged beauty with one hand as the other searches through pillows and behind videos, in the couch, behind it. It can’t be very far. They are married to each other and cannot be separate. In my desperation I widen my search, going into the kitchen. There is no one here. The bacon is burning, smoke coming off of the charred little strips in the pan. Quickly I set the trinket on the counter, turn off the burner, and move the pan into the sink. What was he thinking, just leaving it like this?

 

Where was he?

 

I don’t hear any noises of anyone else in the house being awake, which is odd. I live with six other people and most of them have work early in the morning on a Tuesday. Why am I waking up on the couch on a Tuesday? And where is my phone? I look at the brass casting on the counter as if it could answer my questions.

 

My questions are irrelevant, it tells me.

 

I need the other piece. Nothing and no one else matters now. It is not here. I must find it. I grab my coat from the coat hook and put my prize in the left pocket. Its mate will go in the right.

 

I am dashing to the door and I blink as my hand touches the handle, but it isn’t a handle any longer. It’s something soft. Pleather. I am doing something important! It is something that I can’t remember. The truth of it is still there. This isn’t my bed and my eyes pop open. Bacon. The smell of it is everywhere, cloying. The sound of it sizzling fills the air and my stomach turns at the thought of food.

 

What was I doing?

 

I am on the couch, in my living room, that much is clear. The VHS mountain that grows every month is splayed out in front of the television, a comforting annoyance for it’s familiarity. Still the panic of the dream has me, even without context. Dawn has arrived, but only just.

 

I rub my face, my thoughts on how soon I could get a cup of coffee within me when it catches my eye. The fish. The iron fish that existed no where but within my dream is sitting, impossibly, on the bookshelf. It is slightly rusted and would be unremarkable to anyone except myself.

It is the lock.