In my dream, I'm looking for some money I've misplaced. I thought it was here, somewhere, but I've traveled three roads and am still not sure I've found it. It seems to be tucked inside this bank bag along with some checks. I look through it. The checks are not mine, but I'm pretty certain the money is. It doesn't seem to be much, forty, maybe sixty dollars. I don't want to be thought a thief and so I hesitate. I think I should leave, go back, return on the same road I'd just been down. But when I look back, the road has narrowed. It's only a sandy trail with big rocks here and there, and bits of grass along the sides. It's traversable, but only by foot.
Then, you are there, telling me you'll help me find it. As you leave to look for it, the sun is shining down on you. I watch you go.
When you don't return, I go looking for you and find myself standing outside your office door. I knock, thinking the door is shut. But when I knock, it opens. You jump up, startled, not sure what to say. We don't say anything, but I know you've forgotten, forgotten that I've been waiting, that you said you'd help me look. A beige cable-knit cardigan is hanging over the back of your chair. I think, 'How odd,' it's not the kind of sweater you'd have worn before. The room is empty except for your computer on your desk, your chair, and a little side desk that sits beside it. Nothing hangs on the walls. No art, no memorabilia. They are gone. Only brown undistinguished paneling. No books resting where once the shelves were full. They are all gone. It's just you and your computer.
You look tired. You look older. You've lost a lot of weight. We stand there, silently looking at each other, the desk between us, not certain what to say. And then, you look away.
Image: Edward Hopper's "Stairway at 48 rue de Lille Paris"