It was eight am. She'd been up for half an hour but hadn't moved from bed. She didn't feel good today. And she was trying to remember. She needed to remember. More so than usual. That dream had been important. For she hadn't spoken. She had listened only. This much she could recall. And what he spoke, was meant to be carried over.
She continued to resist the urge to open her eyes. Over the years, she'd learned that as soon as she let the light of the morning in, the dream quickly faded so that it became less and less tangible throughout the day. And she'd accepted that somewhat but today she felt a pressing need to recall his words. They had been an answer, she thought, to some unspoken question. It was almost as if a language was spoken there, in the night which was also day, a language untranslatable in this reality. But why then would she grasp for it so? Why this unease at the forgetting? If it wasn’t translatable how could it be important? How could she love him so much when she couldn’t even identify him, speak his language?
But she understood at night.