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This is one chapter of a novel I'm writing, in its first-draft form. Enjoy!
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Ted slid a crisp twenty across the
counter of the bodega and took a swig of stale, burnt coffee from a
styrofoam cup. As the clerk pulled change from the register, his eyes
drifted behind her, to a wall of cigarettes and batteries, falling
longingly on a pack of Lucky Strikes. “Actually,” he said, “add
a pack of those.”
As he stepped back onto the street and
made his way towards Times Square, he balanced the coffee atop a
newspaper kiosk and tapped the pack into his left hand. He had a
cigarette in his mouth, hanging loosely from his lips, and was
patting down his pockets in search of a lighter before he remembered
he wasn't a smoker. Feeling confused and embarrassed, he pulled the
stick from his mouth and carefully slid it back into the pack, then
tucked the box into the pocket of his slacks.
Ted kept his hand on the box in his
pocket as he walked, pondering what had just happened. Then, tossing
his drained cup on top of an overflowing trash bin, he descended the
stairs into the cold, damp subway.
After an exceptionally drab meeting,
Ted crossed the street to Dot's Diner and slid into a booth across
from Peter, a childhood best friend who shared the same love for
Dot's cherry pie. Peter
watched as Ted dragged a spoon through his black coffee, obviously
distracted.
“Is
something wrong?”, he finally asked.
“Huh?”,
Ted asked, snapping back into reality. “Oh. I was just thinking
about something strange that happened to me this morning.”
The
waitress interrupted, setting their sandwiches in front of them. “Can
I get you anything else?”
“Looks
great. We're all set,” Peter said. As the waitress moved on to the
next table, Peter turned his attention back to Ted. “So, what
happened this morning?”
“It's
silly.” Ted paused, staring out the window and squinting from the
glare. “I've been having these dreams. Pretty much every night for
a couple weeks now.”
“Nightmares?”
“No.
They aren't nightmares. They're just weird. In my dreams, I'm
smoking.”
Peter
laughed, nearly choking on a potato chip. “I thought you were going
to tell me something weird. You look so serious! So you're smoking in
your dreams, so what?”
“The
thing is, I've never smoked a day in my life. But in my dreams it
feels so real.”
A
strong breeze blew outside, shaking the window and sending a man's
hat twirling through the wind, landing lightly on the sidewalk
outside. “That's not the weirdest part,” Ted finally confessed.
He reached into his pocket, fishing out the box, and sliding it
across the table. “I bought these this morning.”
Peter
flashed Ted a look of confusion. “But you don't smoke.”
“I
know. But I'm telling you... these dreams are so real. This morning I
forgot that they're just dreams. I bought them without even
thinking.”
“Why
are they open?”
Ted
fidgeted in his seat and picked at his sandwich. “I had one in my
mouth before I remembered.”
Peter
laughed again. “What? You're shitting me.”
Ted
lowered his head into his hands and let out a moan. “Work must be
getting to me. They're just typical stress dreams, right? Maybe I
just need a vacation.”
“Typical.
Right.” Peter reluctantly agreed.
