Husband, In My Dream

In my dream I sleepwalked downstairs and found you seated upright on the sofa, typing, typing. Couldn’t sleep, you said, because of the full moon’s horrible brightness. I pulled back the curtains. Moon: a waning crescent, dim and yellowy.

Those paisley curtains don’t hang in our lounge. They’re folded in a box in the attic.

I glanced at your screen but it was blank. Only a reflection of your stubby fingers typing, typing. So I went in search of that self-help book about how marriage is a fortified tower that should be kept locked and bolted from the inside, no charity coffee mornings or opening your heart to two-faced friends. But it kept skipping around and jumping from shelf to shelf, eluding my grasp.

Upon waking I couldn’t recall the author’s name, was it Elizabeth, Julia or Sarah? Didn’t she leave her own marriage, blaming romantic impulse?

A waning crescent moon partly obscured by clouds. Lying on her side, like a woman who’s about to get out of bed, put on her wrapper and slippers and go downstairs to ask her husband are you having an affair.