the origin of a dream

Someone was trying to break into my house. Seriously. I heard the tentative knock, the explorative jiggle of the knob. (Or at least Fred did. Hackles up, he looked like a puffer fish, only louder.) Doing my best to stave off the horror movie-panic, I crept out of bed and into some pants -- they never wear pants in horror movies -- before making my way into the living room just in time to see the shadow disappear from the door only to reappear a moment later at the window. As I moved further into the room, I imagined every neighborhood vagrant I'd ever denied my extra change coming for revenge, fancied every mug shot I've ever seen come to life. Then as the intruder moved into the light from the street . . . something about the shape of the burglar's head seemed familiar.

"Jesus! Francie?"

"Jill! Are you up?" Her voice muffled by the glass between us.

"Yeah, I'm up," I said, casual-like, like it wasn't actually the middle of the night. "No Francie, it's two in the morning! Of course, I wasn't up."

"Well. . . um, I'm sorry? You're up now though. So let me in," she said, tapping the window, but I was already unlocking it, dragging it open.

"I almost called the cops," I said moving out of the way as Francie threw her leg over the sill. "You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing here?"

"I came over to write," Francie said, reaching back outside to grab her bag and yank it back through the window before closing it behind her.

"Write what? A ransom note? I know you love Fred, but. . . ."

"No, just to write. It was the only place I could think of at this hour."

"What's wrong with your living room?"

"It's too crowded."

"Why, who's over?"

"No one," she said sitting down on the couch and pulling out notebook and pencil, setting them on the coffee table.

"Oh," I said.

"Oh," I said again as I watched her arrange her makeshift desk. "Um. . . so I haven't been to the store in a while. I don't really have anything to offer . . . ."

"That's okay. I brought port." And she produced a bottle of port from her bag, holding it up for me to see. "You want some?"

"Thanks, no. . . you know where the glasses are?" But France was already on her way to the kitchen.

"Go to bed," she yelled from the other room. "I'm really sorry about scaring you. I should have called. But I didn't want to wake you up."

"Breaking into my house is a lesser discourtesy?" I yelled back.

"It would have been if you weren't such a light sleeper," she said, now back in the room.

"Or if you were a better burglar. What are you writing about?"

She leaned on the wall and shook the cubes in her glass. "Ice," she said.

And that's what I dreamed about last night. Huge house-high icicles that kept me in, but kept the burglars out, too. Go figure.