A Recurrent Dream

At the breakfast table, Nestor’s wife breaks the news, revealing to him that the company she works for has scheduled yet another business trip for her to attend. She claims the seminar, which will be held seven-hundred-miles away in New York City, is necessary for the advancement of her career.

From across the table, Nestor stares down at his eggs and says, “When?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Funny how these meetings always seem to pop up with little notice.”

“They were only able—” his wife begins to say, her voice trailing off when Nestor shakes his head.

Looking up from his plate, Nestor says in an anxious tone, “I dreamt it again last night.”

Once again he is referring to his recurrent dream, a fabricated nightmare in which his wife bends over him while he sleeps, and with a deceitful smile painted across her face, she uses a threaded needle to sew his eyelids shut.

Nestor’s wife doesn’t reply. Avoiding her husband’s glare, she picks at her eggs. In the silence, only the tines of the fork can be heard as they clink against her porcelain plate.

After several moments, Nestor says, “It’s true, isn’t it? My dream has meaning, doesn’t it?”

Nestor’s wife releases her fork, letting it fall onto the plate. Without replying, she climbs out of her seat and hurries from the room.

When her footsteps on the wooden floor have faded, Nestor smiles. He resumes eating his breakfast, satisfied that his ploy has put his wife on the defensive. As is always the case, Nestor knows she will be too upset during her trip to wonder what he is doing—and with whom.