“Tell me what you remember,” said the man on the seat.
“Well,” said the man on the couch, “What do I remember? I’ve been having this same dream for so long now you would think it would be perfectly burnt into my brain – frame by frame, word by word.”
“Just do the best you can,” said the man on the seat.
The man on the couch paused and breathed deeply. How did the story go again? “Well, it’s AM, still dark. And there’s no noise, it’s completely silent. Wait – there is a noise. A cat screeches in the night. Another cat screeches back. Now there’s no noise.” He stops, his brow furrowed heavily.
“Go on,” said the man on the seat.
“Umm. There’s a door and a light – a fluoro light shines down.” The man on the couch halted. “Shit, I know there is something about a painting; there’s more about the door too. You would think I would remember this. It’s all I’ve dreamt for the last two months! It shouldn’t be this difficult.”
“Just relax,” said the man on the seat, “It will come if you let it.” The man on the seat casually looked across at the mantelpiece: ten minutes.
“So there’s a door – it’s a roller door, and it’s being lit by a single fluoro light beaming down. And there’s words on the door – “PTERON: Your Company for Tomorrow, Today!” in big bold letters. Underneath the words is a picture of a happy family picnicking by a scenic pond and behind the pond is a metropolis city.” He paused again. “Next a truck drives up but I’ve got a feeling I’ve missed something about the door. I’m sure there was something after the bit about the picture. It probably doesn’t matter.”
He wriggled on the couch, pushing his shoulders into the soft cushion. The padded leather felt comforting underneath his body.
“Now there’s a noise. A soft noise, and it gets louder and louder still until it’s roaring. It’s a truck and it is backing up towards the roller door. You don’t see the truck, you only hear it. Anyway, the truck stops and someone gets out and opens the roller door – you don’t see the person either. Bye bye! to the happy family as the door disappears onto its scroll above.”
The man on the couch stopped.
“And then?” said the man on the seat after a while.
“And then nothing – that’s it. That’s when I wake up.” The man on the couch sat up and turned around. “What do you think it means?”
“I think it means we have a lot to discuss next week, but we’re making good progress,” said the man on the seat.
He closed his notepad and folded his hands into his lap. The man on the couch knew that was the sign that it was time to go.