It began…with work. Although I work for no one but myself now, most of my dreams these days skip around work and identity. It’s an amusing glimpse into my psyche, as if I’m saying, who am I without work? (I don’t consider writing working; don’t like to use that term for writing. Seems like calling fiction writing work debases the fiction. Crazy, right?)
Working for a man somewhere. I don’t know what I was doing, but I was good at it and enjoying it. He was sending me on a business trip. I’d been to the destination before but wasn’t overly familiar with it, so he and I went over a three-D map of where I was to go, to improve my comfort zone.
I had days before I was to leave, and had no reason to hurry. I went home as part of my normal day. We were sharing a house with another family. It was an odd arrangement. We also had young cats. My wife was going around, hiding treats for the cats to find.
I decided that I needed to check my clothing for my trip. I went into the closet and went through my suits and shirts. Nothing in there satisfied me, so I went off to buy more. Nothing in the first store suited my moods and needs so I pushed through stores, seeking the right product. When I finally did find it, after a search that took me from mid-afternoon to late dusk, I held up a suit and smiled, knowing that was it.
The dream ended.