The Dream

Diary Entry: December 23, 2024

Today is St. George's Day. I woke up screaming. Or maybe just breathing too fast. The sheets are twisted around my legs, damp. That dream again. No, not that one, a new one. A worse one.

I’m standing in the bathroom now, leaning over the porcelain sink. I turn the chrome tap. The water rushes out, cold and clean, and I start talking to it. It’s the only thing that listens without judgment. It just takes the words and carries them away, down the drain.

“You won’t believe this,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “It was that place. You know, ‘Le Rêve Doré’ or some other stupid, exclusive name. The one in New York everyone’s dying to get into.”

In the dream, I was desperate. I needed to be inside. It wasn’t just food; it was... validation. I saw them going in — actors I recognized, tech billionaires, people who shape the world. And me, on the velvet rope’s wrong side.

I begged. I schmoozed. I tried to bribe the doorman, who looked at my cash like it was lint. I found the manager, pleaded my case. I think I even cornered the owner by the service entrance, promising... I don’t know what. I did verbal gymnastics, bending over backward until my dignity snapped.

And it worked.

They let me in.

It was everything they said. Low lighting, crystal gleaming, soft music that sounded like expensive thoughts. I was seated at a small table, my heart pounding with victory. I’d made it. I was in.

Then, the main course. The waiter, impossibly elegant, placed it before me with a flourish. It was... well, it was shit. Literally. A perfectly coiled piece of human excrement, steaming slightly, nestled on a bed of microgreens. It was garnished with edible gold leaf and a delicate pansy.

The smell was... disguised. Cloves, perhaps? Saffron? They presented it so beautifully. The menu description, which I suddenly remembered, called it “The Primal Essence of Earthly Sustenance.” Everyone around me was eating it. They were savoring it, discussing its “bold terroir” and “unapologetic honesty.”

So I ate it. I picked up the silver fork, took a bite, and... I liked it. It was profound. Rich, complex. I felt a wave of pure, unadulterated enjoyment. I ate every last bite.

Waking up was like being slapped. The taste — the real taste — flooded my mouth. Bile. Disgust. I gagged and ran here, to the sink, to you.

And that’s when the real problem started. As I’m watching the water swirl, trying to wash the dream-taste away, last night clicks into place. It wasn’t a dream.

That restaurant. The other restaurant. The one with the red curtains. She was there. The girl... not a celebrity, just someone I paid to look like one for a few hours. The endless bottles of wine. I remember trying to impress her, flashing my wallet.

I just checked. The wallet’s empty. Every card, every bill. Gone.

I’m staring at the running water, and the dream and the memory are mixing. The glamour of the dream-restaurant and the tacky red velvet of the real one. The profound enjoyment of eating shit and the sour, empty feeling of being robbed.

Which one was worse? Which one is real?

The water just keeps running. I feel sick. It’s going to be a bad day.