In my dream, and possibly after a bout of near-insanity, I had shown up on the lawn (greener than I remember) of the house in Fort Smith. There, I cajoled husband into letting me in and somehow got near him enough to search his pockets.
Not finding the house keys there, I began to argue and then fight with him. I searched the house high and low, all the while yelling out the most hurtful things I could think of. For his part, he kept parading every kind of floozy through the front door (who all appeared to have keys).
Contrary to his intended reaction, though, I began offering unsolicited advice to them which ballooned into a full-fledged twice-weekly (although how I knew this when the sun never set is beyond me) courseload with titles such as “Arguments 101: Dumbing It Down” and “She’s Never ‘Just A Friend'” and (my personal favorite) “It’s Only Downhill From Here.” These bitches were taking notes!
Eventually he got mad enough to start throwing tantrums every time we were in the same room, which only increased my courses’ attendance All the while, I’m still searching for those keys. They finally turned up inside the couch. He threatened to change the locks but I said I’d just change them again.
Incensed, he vowed to call the cops, which I laughed off. A single officer did arrive, but on foot. I pointed out to the officer that there was no Order Of Protect and no divorce decree, and husband had never mailed my left-behind belongings, making my rights to be there legit.
After the officer left, husband’s tantrums escalated to physical altercations, in front of his somewhat less loyal floozies even. I ran through a forest that materialized in the backyard. Stopping at a lake and mistaking the eerie silence for a lack of pursuit, I stripped and decided to swim as a form of stress relief.
I’ll never know if it was the lake weeds or his hand that pulled me under. I’ll never know if his forearm was on my neck for strangulation (to finish the job) or to pull me out safely. I’ll never know if it was a goodbye kiss or a last-minute remorseful failed CPR attempt. My dream-death (although certainly not the death of my dreams) brought me to consciousness one may presume.