Jason's Journey

Breakfast for Three

I'm not going to lie, even though I hate the morning. I'm really a breakfast sort of guy. On the way downstairs, I notice the scent of fresh blueberries in the air. It smells heavenly, and whatever we are having in this dream, I want some of it.

Still, I'm a little miffed that she feels the need to carry me all the way downstairs, but I can imagine it's faster than I could walk down myself, as small as I am now. The staircase is one of those winding ones, and I wonder if I'm in a mansion. I've only ever seen something this grand in movies and pictures in magazines, never in real life, so this dream might actually be really cool, aside from the baby thing.

As we got down the last step, I heard a guy call out to her, "Alysa? I'm in the kitchen," and I recognized this voice for sure. My heart is racing; I can feel the beating in my chest. I feel like I'm trembling in anticipation.

Before the woman, Alysa, even says his name, I already know the man is Isaiah, my therapist. He looks so real, just like his dark skinned, Indo-Trinidadian self. He's a bit short for a guy, with a medium build, like a carbon copy of the guy. Wow.

"Thanks honey," she says, "I brought Jason. He's a little grumpy this morning."

They chat for a second while Alysa is putting me in the baby chair for breakfast, and my eyes are glued to Isaiah. I can't believe he's in this dream, and I'm having one of playing house with him and his wife. Looking closely, I think I'm actually dreaming him – well them – up maybe a tad younger. This dream clone talks like him with the same inflections and mannerisms and everything.

Oh my god, I remember her too. I have met Alysa before at Isaiah's office when I go to therapy, sometimes she passes me in the waiting room, and every now and then I say hi back. This dream is insane. I actually feel guilty for a minute. It's gotta be some kinda psychological thing that I'm having a fantasy of being my therapist's kid or something. I don't even need to pay anyone to tell me I'm fucked in the head. It's obvious to me, and I don't have a degree.

Isaiah catches me staring at him dumbfounded, and he ducks to make eye contact with me and smiles, "Are you ready to have some num-nums in your tum-tum?" he walks over to my and pats my head.

I glare at him, but I don't say no. I actually am hungry, and I really want whatever they are having that smells so good. I just wish they would stop talking to me like that. I just haven't really figured out how my new vocabulary works to tell that to quit it.

Isaiah doesn't disappoint, and he delivers my breakfast to me. When he places the plate on my table, I lick my lips, too ready to dig in. It's gourmet food, better than I ever had before: homemade pancakes, eggs and chopped up fruit. I reach my hands for the food, and Isaiah immediately pulls the plate out of my reach.

The hurt must be visible on my face because Isaiah immediately says, "Don't worry baby boy, you're gonna get your num-nums just now."

I watch sadly and silently as he cuts a piece of the pancake with his fork and knife before holding it up to my mouth. For a moment, I decide if it's worth my dignity to eat like this. I'm already sitting in a baby chair in a stupid diaper being subjected to incessant baby talk. Am I really willing to debase myself further?

Fuck it. Yes, I am. That food smells absolutely amazing. I lean forward and take the bite of food from the fork, savoring the textures and tastes as they flood my senses. It's amazing. I take bite after bite, and by the time we're done, my eyes are closed, and I feel so happy and content.

God, this dream is so weird but oh so good. Before Isaiah sits to eat his own food, he puts one of those little kid bottles on my table, I guess for me to drink while they chat. Between sips, I listen to their conversation.