It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream. He’s still there. No amount of closing my eyes will make him go away. I’m running out of time. My eye blinks are useless. He’s coming closer. I don’t know what to do. I think I should scream. He’s still at the foot of the bed. His eyes locked with mine. It’s the most unromantic dance of two colliding strangers and one of them happens to be in my bedroom, on my bed and slowly making his way up beside me.
But I scream.
And suddenly there’s no more weird man in my bedroom, but a cat. A normal-sized orange tabby that suddenly wants to snuggle on my lap and I almost want to aww and then I remember that this cat must be the man.
There’s nothing to do but call 911.
They arrive on the scene, slowly, much too slowly. I’m holding the cat, calming him for whatever reason, because I like animals and suddenly it seems the most polite thing to do. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was a dream.
No dream. There is a cat in my arms. There are police officers knocking at my door.
For some reason they believe me and the chief officer takes the cat from my hands and I’m still shouting at them. And I turn away for one second and suddenly he’s no longer a cat.
“It’s him,” I shout and the police officers nod their heads and continue out the door like they see this kind of thing everyday.
