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A young picture editor is
...woken up from sharpening an out-of-focus photograph of a group of elderly women gathering asymmetrically around a small cheque made out to The Stroke Club, and finds himself being questioned by the news editor. She huffs to his desk like a rusty old tank and asks him about the late Mrs Williams. The news editor's disquiet is catching. Her ankles bulge above her high-heels. It's not possible to tell her that - despite her sense of urgency concerning every aspect of her work - no-one's life depends on it. It seems she's prepared to challenge that theory by staking her own. Everyone in the office prays they won't be in on the day she dies at her desk. "Mrs Williams ?" he asks.
"Yes, Mrs Williams. Obit. Here's her picture, but I don't know who she is."
"Um... It rings a bell. I think it was a scan. I'll try and find out for you."
In the background, one of the subs asks the deputy editor what he had for dinner last night. She asks him this every day. There seems to be little else in his life to ask about. Just work. He had tuna sandwiches.
The picture editor finds the write-up of the obituary and prints it out. It is passed on to its author, a reporter who typed it up not one week before. He looks at it as if it's written in Cyrillic text. He has no recollection of Mrs Williams whatsoever.
The picture editor considers making a coffee, but is loathed to as he can see seven people whose turn it is to do so. At the same time the realisation that - though not in such an advanced state - he is no different from Mrs Williams insidiously takes a bite out of the marrow of his spirit. Outside the sun blazes, and life goes on.
I wake up.
I feel the clutch around me tighten, and a dulcifying voice sleepily asks "you ok ?"
"Er... I think so," I reply.
"You jumped."
"I was having a really weird dream."
"Don't worry... You're here now. Now go back to sleep. In a couple of hours you can make me breakfast."
"I'd love to," I mutter as I drift back off.
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