In my dream she has rented out her loft to a men’s sex party and we chat about the rest of her life while her chinchilla leaps on my back and wraps around my neck.

In my dream she carries the dog out of the storefront where she washed him. He’s a caramel French bulldog with fluffy hair and once she puts him down in the street where I’m laying I can’t keep my hands off of him.

In my dream picking through the wreckage on the lawn yields a few of the tempered glass discs the area is famous for.

In my dream I bend the kickstand back into place and thousands of gnats rise from the surface of the yellow bike.

In my dream the demand for beverages at the year-end party is such a crush that I give up and end up skiing down the snowy streets to the Safeway the following morning.

In my dream it’s a street that we both know and we move through it quickly.

In my dream I am fitted into a container. The view is satisfying.

In my dream we scan the water, picking out debris and looking for the flash of a green metal bracelet just below the gray chop.

In my dream I am sending her to meet the three city officials. She is made of carefully folded white paper.

In my dream she is bubbly after learning that someone has drawn me reading a book as a modern day version of Disney’s Jafar.

In my dream it’s in the back of a cluttered music shop on a shelf: a hand made tarot deck with two sets of cards: one that is standard rectangles and one that is cut into a self portrait silhouette of its maker. All the cards are laminated silk, vividly painted. I speculate about the woman who created them while gathering them up to take home.