And I wake up with a start.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I remember a dream I once had, about being punched in the stomach: when I awoke, there was a slight tingling pain in my abdominal area. This, however, is somehow worse. It takes a few long moments for the familiarity of my room to drag me back fully into the waking world. A friend of mine once told me that only we can accurately interpret our own dreams. If that's true, I don't know what to make of what my unconscious just spewed up, unless my mind is telling me to be more careful around my boss. I check the digital clock by my bedside - just enough time to print and read Raya's story, and to rush to the café. But first, I think I need a cold bracing shower to clear my mind. Yeah… just the thing.

After the shower, with my hair still damp and my nerves still a little jangly, I sit down in front of my PC and print out Raya's story.

I read through it once, for sheer enjoyment. It's a funny-sad tale, well and wittily crafted. Certain passages actually make me laugh, but on the whole, the story is a quietly painful one, about betrayals and misunderstandings.

The second time I read through it, it's with the intent of pulling back the curtain, so to speak, of taking apart the illusion. At first, I worry that I've forgotten everything I ever learned while reading and workshopping stories those many years ago, but then I start to warm to my task. I note the way Raya used slang words and amusing asides to build the main character. I note her use of details when she describes the main character's job: just enough to convince, not enough to overwhelm or bore. Soon, the task of workshopping becomes a pleasure as I relearn what is possible when one rearranges twenty-odd symbols in a meaningful fashion. I'm a child again, observing the way a story flies or falls, trying to figure out why it does or doesn't work. The minutes pass unnoticed. next>>