House Sitter

The Dream

That night I dreamt there was a man standing at the foot of my bed. This man looked just like me, except he was healthy and handsome and confident, and he wore a friendly smile and his hair was perfect. This man was wearing clothes I would never buy but that looked awesome on him. He motioned for me to follow him and I did. In his wake, he left a pleasant scent of aftershave, hair putty, and fresh laundry, intoxicating but not overbearing. His leather boots made clap clap clap footsteps as he walked, totally overpowering my tentative padding, as he strode out of the bedroom. As I passed through the bedroom door, I emerged into a long, wide hallway. It seemed we were not in Bonnie & Pete's apartment but in some kind of hotel or convention centre. The lighting was soft and amber-tinged, and a pleasingly neutral carpet pattern zigzagged across the floor. Wooden Louis XIV-style tables were pushed against the wall at regular intervals, each one holding a clear glass vase of fresh flowers. The spectre strode forward, not waiting for me, right down the middle of the hallway toward a pair of doors at the far end. The doors were closed but he pushed both open at once and stepped through the middle. He shoved them a bit to give me the space to squeak in, and I had to scurry forward to make it through.

We had arrived in a large ballroom with a two-storey high ceiling. Massive Phantom of the Opera chandeliers hung suspended from domed depressions, their crystal glittering with artificial candlelight. The room was packed with hundreds of people in fancy dress yet it didn't feel crowded. The marble floor shone spotlessly and although no one in the room paid me or my doppelganger any mind at all, their reflections on the floor all stared at him. Servers in black and white catering uniforms passed around colourful cocktails in coupe glasses and I followed my successful twin as he snatched one off the silver platter, sliding a quick "Thank you" to the server as he passed. The server blushed and looked down at her work shoes, followed him with her eyes, then moved on into the crowd.

I followed him and, though the crowd grew denser, I had no trouble getting through. The people seemed to part for him as he passed. We came to a clearing in the crowd where the people had formed a large circle. Within the circle were several pairs of dancers engaged in a twirling waltz, accompanied by a live quartet on a riser. The couples whirled by us like dandelion seeds, each utterly engrossed in their partners yet somehow staying within that perfect circle.

I saw my other was fixated on one of the dancers, his eyes laser-focused over the rim of his glass. He was staring at the only lone dancer: A woman in a midnight blue satin gown, whose auburn hair flowed down her naked back. Her toned arms held an invisible partner and her bare feet peaked and spun with every step. She whirled along with the other dancers and, as she approached me and my shadow, he drained his cocktail and handed it to me without looking. She spun towards us and I saw that it was Claire. He neatly stepped into the ring of dancers and locked into place with her. The two of them swept away into the dance, leaving me with his empty glass.

I looked down into the bowl of the cocktail and when I looked up, the dance was over and the dance circle had collapsed like a bubble underwater. I wandered through the crowd of faceless, stylish people and was drawn to flashbulbs popping off near the front of the room, where a gilded proscenium stage topped with angels loomed above the crowd.

Standing there, his arm around Claire's waist, was me. Was him. The me I wish I could be. He was dressed in a blue blazer that perfectly complemented her dress. Getting closer, I noticed it had a subtle paisley pattern running all along it, like schools of fish swarming along the sleeves and chest, that seemed to move and shift as he spoke. His sleeves were rolled up, and the hint of a tasteful tattoo peeked out from under the cuff. His beard was professionally trimmed and hugged his face perfectly. His hair was frozen in a windswept wave like he was permanently on a sailboat.

The crowd had formed another, smaller bubble around him and Claire, and he stood next to a sign with his face on it. He was being interviewed and photographed for something, but I couldn't tell what. He answered questions briefly but respectfully, deferring to his beautiful wife who piped in occasionally to deliver the perfect cutting witticism to prove she wasn't just some ornament to his success. Their charm radiated off him in calming waves. This is perfect, I thought.