Law of Dreams

2

Law's apartment was on the outskirts of the city, where all the graffiti and hipsters congregated in a whirl of coloured paint and hair and dilapidated brick and ripped jeans.

After the laptop incident Law and I had spoken a great deal more during his visits to the café. It always seemed easy for him. I pretended I was dreaming—that made it easier for me. I was someone else when I dreamt. I could speak to guys as cool as Law with ease, and he even seemed to enjoy my company.

A few weeks later he had invited me to his place. It was a Sunday afternoon. He had said around three. It was three on the dot. I waited at the base level of his building for two minutes extra before setting off up the chipped stairs.

"You found me," Law said when he opened the door. He was smiling wider than I'd seen before, wearing his standard white shirt that drooped loose over his shoulders.

"Eventually," I replied nervously. I opened my mouth to tell him how difficult it was to find a park—then quickly closed it.

He led me inside a narrow den of peeling paint, bohemian rugs and strewn papers. My shoulders could almost touch both walls in the entryway. It opened to a small lounge and kitchen; here it smelt like smoke and sweet flowers. Flowers? I scanned the room, spotting a string of dried jasmine dangling from an exposed light bulb.

"You gotta let me make you a coffee," said Law, already starting on it. "Since you've been making mine for like, five months." It was seven.

"Thanks, I'd love one." The word love spun in my head and chest and I felt suddenly ridiculous.

"Feel free to sit," he said with his back to me.