Quiet Day

Daydreams.

 

            My sandals clop down the hall, back and forth, back and forth.

            There’s a light on in the printmaking room. My clopping footsteps halt. I crick open the door. Inside is the girl with the patchwork apron. I wave shyly, and then clop, more slowly now, across the stained cement floor to meet her. I reach her and speculate, “Quiet day, isn’t it?” My voice echoes, to emphasize my point.

            “I’m almost done,” she notes, simply. She has always-pink cheeks and a lopsided smile, “I’m hungry. Come get dinner with me after I clean up?”

 

            And then I wake up.