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9

Eva

The dream always begins in a different way. It comes in disguises, so I won’t know it’s happening until it’s too late. The dream always ends the same.

Everyone I love is dying. It’s too late to save them. I can hear them all around me, screaming. The worst part is the things they say. The things they said.

I don’t want to die.

Help me.

Please, God, someone help!

Then the gun is in my hand.

And everyone is dead.

The smell of blood fills my nostrils.

I wake with a start. His face is there, separated by my dreamy state so I see it in parts: his square jaw, the single dimple on his left side, the flicker of light on his glasses. The lingering dreamworld draws halos in his hair.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Of course I’m okay.” I sit up too fast and hit my head.

He says “Ouch” for me.

Outside the window, the countryside is powering by, like my nightmares might disappear if we move fast enough.

I’m on the sleeper train from Florence to Paris. I’ve never had a nightmare in front of someone. Even my fiancé—who, in fairness, rarely slept over—never witnessed one.

Seeing my nightmare reflected in Jonathan’s face makes me feel exposed, like my soul is transparent and now the whole world knows I used to be a part of it but I lost it.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I ask.

“You were making noises.” He’s too nice to say I was crying.

“What kind of noises?”

“I don’t know…” Jonathan says.

“Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“I was already awake.” He told me he never slept. I said I didn’t either. I lied. What I meant to say was I don’t sleep; I dream .

I pull my legs in. “Well, I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“I wasn’t disturbed,” he says.

I knew it would come to this eventually. It always does. I’m too fucked-up to do anything but fuck. But I wish it didn’t have to come this fast. We could’ve had a moment. One, two, three nights in Paris. I’m way better at sex when I have room to move. And now he’ll never know.

I climb out of the luggage rack. “We should go back to our car. The beds are probably more comfortable. Probably ,” I joke, trying to keep things light.

He stays frozen on the luggage rack.

“Okay, well,” I say, “that was fun. Thanks.” I’m pushing him away a little. I know this. He seems to know it, too. But I’m not sure if he knows I want him to pull me back.

“I’ll see you back there,” he says. He doesn’t move.

“Okay,” I say, forcing myself away from him. “I’ll see you back at the car.”