Who knows how long I sat in the way-too-soft-to-be-real armchair before I realized that thinking wasn’t a very proactive way to figure out the answers to all of the things I needed answers to. I got up with the intention to do something, but I had no idea what. I walked around the kitchen. What would I do if this were real? I asked myself. Well, I’d probably take a shower. Or a bath. I can always clear my head by taking a bubble bath and sipping on a glass of wine. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll take a bath. I walked over to the newly furnished cabinets and noticed the neat little knobs—they were something only I would pick out. The cabinet I opened, of course, had several wine glasses. I reached for the biggest one I could find, grabbed a bottle of wine from the new wine rack in the pantry, and headed to the bathroom.
Oh. My. God. IS THIS MY BATHROOM? I was speechless. The slight doubt still resting in the back of my mind vanished. There was NO WAY this is real. I wanted this bathroom. I wish I weren’t dreaming. This… place—it was far too grant to just be called a bathroom--was what I had always imagined the Roman bath houses would have looked like… but better. There was art on the walls, exquisitely amazing art. TruPaul had to have stolen this stuff from a museum or something. There was already water in the swimming pool sized bath tub. Steam was rolling off the shimmering surface, and towels sat neatly folded in a wicker basket near one of the corners. I picked my jaw up, poured my wine, undressed, and descended the stairs that lead straight into the pool.
The water was the perfect temperature, and my wine was just sweet enough for my liking. I started to sip, and sip some more, and the more I sipped, the more I started thinking about what TruPaul had said to me. How could whatever I needed to figure out about G.M. have anything to do with my waking up? Is this the only way I can wake up? What if I don’t figure it out? And why did she bring up the fact that I knew nothing, nada, zilch, about Alex and the homewrecker’s relationship. Could there really be another explanation…? I highly doubt it. No matter what she says, I just can’t see anything that would justify walking away from a seven year relationship with no other explanation than “I want out.” I mean honestly, there’s no way he wasn’t cheating. If she was a friend that he was trying to help out I would’ve known her. We’d been together for SEVEN years. We knew all of each other’s friends, past and present. Or so I thought…
My thoughts were racing, but not in a productive way. The wine was definitely getting to my head, and, somehow, it never seemed to run out. The water never got cooler either. Steam just continued to roll of the surface. Maybe this bath wasn’t such a good idea after all, I reconsidered as I watched beads of sweat roll drip off of my glass and into the tub. No. It was definitely a good idea. Anything that involves this bathroom is a good idea.
I knew that I'd have to clear my head in order to get anything done. As if the room sensed my needs, a high window that I hadn't noticed slid open, letting in a cool breeze. My mind settled somewhat, and I could begin to think somewhat rationally again. Although, can anything I do or think in this dream really be logical? Dreams are usually supposed to have their own logic. In fact, why do things seem as ordered as they are? Do I have dreams like this often and in this much detail, but forget them when I wake up?
After several minutes of circular thinking, I decided that there was no way I would ever be able to answer any of the concerns I had about the situation. If my brain wanted me to find answers about Alex as well as what was preventing breakthrough with G.M. How in the world was I supposed to find information I didn't consciously know in a world created by my unconscious?
As I pondered some more, taking smaller sips from the wine glass I held loosely between my fingers, I noticed one of the mosaics on the wall looked different than the rest. Most of them were pretty geographic designs like colorful squares and triangles, but this one in particular seemed to depict an image. Even as I looked at the mosaic, it shifted to fully form whatever it was going to show me.
The picture finished shifting for a moment, and I recognized myself sitting in the tub that I was currently in. The shapes and colors changed again, showing me sitting at my computer. I had a strange look on my face, and I realized that the only thing online that could possibly give me that expression was Alex's Facebook page. Looking at the somewhat distorted reflection of my face, I realized just how ugly dwelling on Alex made me seem. I couldn't discern whether the look on my face was despair or rage, or a combination of both!
As the picture changed for a third time, I instantly recognized the form of Alex and that inflated balloon of a homewrecker. After a moment of looking, I saw myself in the background of the mosaic. The expression on my face had changed from being ambiguously sad or angry to a mask of malicious intent. I looked as if I was about to rip a stiletto right from my foot and stab someone in the jugular with it.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew that the mosaic very well could be a trick TruPaul was using to scare me away from being so angry with Alex. The rest of me was pretty much just scared of the look on my face, and how ugly it was. Is that seriously how I look? Could being so consumed by anger change me so much? All I knew for sure was that I wanted out of the bath for now. Marvelous as it was, the mosaic was just plain creepy. I would have to just go straight to bed and deal with G.M and Alex in the morning.
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