Jungle greens

He’s strutting down the main drag carrying a black attaché case to match his high heels and stockings. His legs and chest are unshaved. His jungle-green bra matches his suspender belt and panties. Nobody looks at him. They’re not even averting their eyes. They just don’t notice.

My husband dreams in media res, in colours and scenes and wakes up in a sweat before any epiphany. That’s when I say, tell me, and he does.
“Can I have it?” I say.
“You’re so greedy.”
“Ha!”
“What do you do with them all?”
I grin.
“I don’t want to know,” he says.

There’s the one when I gave him a glass with a hairline crack and red wine seeped over his new white shirt. There’s another where the tiles in the kitchen were falling off the wall, and when he tried to catch them, they just fell more quickly. Once he’s given me his dreams, he forgets them, he says.

I don’t analyse his dreams, I just play with them. I can sit for hours doodling and moodling.
“I don’t want to go there,” he says.
“Where?”
“Into that head of yours.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say.
“I can hear little cogs creaking away.”
“That’s because I’m exploring stories.”
“I don’t want to go there. Not with this last one.”

When he was wearing his jungle-green undies, a writing mate had come to stay.
He told her his dream.
“Can I have it?” she said.
“Hey, but it’s mine,” I said.
He looked at us both and shook his head slowly. “Why don’t you just share it?”

My writing mate hasn’t done anything with his dream yet, and my little cogs keep skipping past the jungle-green lace. I guess the corporate drag queen’s on hold, pending a future board meeting.