Mike let me sleep late this morning. He tucked me in, shooed the cats out of the room and closed the door. Four pillows, a pile of blankets and an entire full sized bed, all to myself. Heavenly.
And I dreamed. My typical late morning dreams come complete with plot lines, an interesting cast of characters, exciting locations - all in vivid technicolor. They're so detailed that I often find myself thinking about them later in the day, as if remembering snippets of a film I'd just seen in the theater.
But lately I've noticed that something has changed in my dreams. Me. I walk through them carrying a gun (and it's my gun, my Bersa) on my hip now. It's just there in my holster, same as it always is in my waking life. That it's there at all seems as natural as breathing - it's just what I do, who I am.
I've had to draw only once.