This is an excerpt from my favourite book of Dreams - The One That You Don't Know Of

We were sitting at the end of the room with little cards sprawled on the floor. Over our giggles and bitchy smiles, we read her life out. We had, in our hands, one of the many copies of her secret diary.

I could see her, over the table behind which I was enjoying my fiesta. I knew her. Next thing I knew, she was standing behind me, looking down with her face packed with an overdose of white face powder. It almost looked like a face pack. Or maybe it was. After all, it is the book of dreams. So, for my humour and yours, she had a face pack on and she looked down on upon me with her big eyes. I almost felt guilty for reading her cards or secret diary and muttered out, "Everyone was giving out the copies.." in my defense.

She grabbed my arm with her cold hands. What was truly cold about this experience was that it was a cold yet comforting grasp and I hated it. I hated it because there should be nothing comforting about her. And then she said, "We need to talk."

With all my courage, despite the knots in my throat, I let out a "Why? What for?"

"About your special friend."

And suddenly the venue changed into a huge movie theatre and we were walking up the stairs to leave from the back exit when I spotted him and realised he was here with her. I tried to hide my disbelief, so that she would not win with the look on my face. Then she said something, I don't quite remember and apparently, it was humourous in nature and he let out a laugh and said, "That is quite funny you know" which peirced me through and through. The most (and pathetically enough) I could do was shoot my killer look at him (which FYI did not work).

I couldn't imagine, fathom or swallow what I was seeing, feeling and hearing. In a dream, it was like a dream. It was one of those moments when you wished the ground would open and take you in because you felt everyone's eyes on you, enjoying your embarrassment.

We went out and she started her explanation. It was beyond my hardest understanding why she felt the need to talk to me. The better she felt taking it out of her, the worse I became. Either or.

At the end of it all, I walked to him for some comfort. Some reassurance. And the closer I got to him, the rows of seats kept closing up on me. I'd move to the right, squeezing my way through and the seat on the left would move back. He was right in the middle, with a seat empty next to him. I wanted to sit there but I knew who would. In my state of helplessness, I heard him say, as the lights in the theatre dimmed, "Let me watch the movie."

And I woke up. I hate how vivid my dreams are and I hate it more that I remember them.

And I also hate house chores.