"I had another dream of flying."
"At least you were sleeping." Charlotte yawned and rolled away.
"I guess. But it sure seemed like I wasn't."
Her voice coaxed through a pillow. "Stephen, it's your turn to make breakfast."
"It seemed so real. Like I was totally me, except bigger and more perceptive and, well, so unrestricted."
Charlotte was trying to sleep but mumbled, "And don't give the cat so much food. He's getting fat."
"It seemed more real than being awake." I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying and failing to fully reconnect to the experience.
After a moment another mumble came from across the bed. "You've had plenty of 'flying' dreams. Become a pilot, already."
"Or a paraglider."
Now the mumble was louder and irritated. "Whatever. It's time to make breakfast!"
"All right, all right!"
With the cat trailing, I shuffled toward the kitchen. A vague sense of weightlessness and deeper understanding faded behind a closing curtain of nothingness. Gravity mocked my dragging steps until my foot landed on the cat's tail. A feline shriek shock-launched us both past the fridge and against a tumbling trash can, sending the frenzied cat in the direction of a condemnation hurling from the bedroom: "What are you doing in there!"
I was wide awake now, nursing my shin while cursing yesterday's spilled coffee grounds and floor against my face. "Crash landing."
by George Alger
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