I need to pee.
The hallway seems longer than usual, and I think the floor is a treadmill, but I am not sure—my weary eyes are locked against the glow of the open bathroom door, the inviting light gleaming over a toilet, open, ready for me.
“Good God!” my bladder screams. “What setting is that treadmill on?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t even know if it is there!”
“It isn’t.”
“You’re right.”
The toilet is in front of me now, my pants unzipped.
“Do it,” bladder says. “Pee.”
I wake up in a too-warm bed, sopping wet.
A really bad dream that turned out not to be a dream. Unusual…and good.
As we age, too often this it the case with our very existence.