Dream-riddled, he moved to spoon her. Without face or voice in the dream, he no less knew it was about her, about them. They were dozing on a train. Night. Winking hamlets. Europe, in one of those passenger compartments seen in old movies, the Orient Express. Somebody, a conductor or a gendarme, was swiping the door open, startling them. He bolted awake, bathed in sweat. Where was she? What . . .? Why did she...? What did I do? Her keys were gone. Check the parking lot. The car's still there. Okay. Calm down. He placed his head back on the pillow, trying to summon the dream back to life. He closed his eyes and paced his breathing. The door handle jiggled. She came in. (He assumed it was her; it had to be.) He kept his eyes closed, willing an unnatural stillness, doing his best imitation of himself sleeping.
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