The early hours: as dark as the city gets. As quiet. Friday Solovide is barely asleep, tumbling slowly into her dreams after a long night on the telephone. Owen: hours ahead of her, deep in the landscape of his night, unreachable. They are back to back, but separated by a vast unconscious distance, the abyss of the mind unfettered. Oblivious of each other for a time they can not measure; perhaps minutes, perhaps millennia.
~
Something must have disturbed her because she came back; came round. There was a seamless transition from the utter unconscious to almost conscious. She was vaguely aware of the sulphur glow pouring through the window, the city night which Owen would not shut out. And then he said: “I can only see the green one.”
It was purposeful, an unusually certain tone, cutting through the silence of the room and the fog of her early sleep. As she turned to him, confused, his tone became more soothing: “No, I think we’ll be over there.” He was sound asleep, eyes closed but an alert, conscious look on his face. He smiled at whoever flickered in his imagination, all innocence. “Of course.”
Friday smiled back. He looked like a sweet child. It was a warm moment, a one-way intimacy. A gift for her, from a part of Owen that even Owen was unfamiliar with. She wanted to wake him, kiss him, talk back. But she did not want to lose the moment. She spoke softly, trying to appeal to his dream-self without waking him: “Where are you, Owen?” He chuckled, amused by something, and turned onto his front, burying his head into the pillows. And then he was gone.
