The Intersection I Was Sent To

The dream did not feel like mine. That is the cleanest way I can say it. My dreams are murky and self-involved; this was framed, like something shown to me.

Dusk, an intersection I recognised — Mercer and Vine, near my old gym — the crossing signal counting down, a woman with a pram half a step off the kerb. From the left, a silver saloon with one dead headlight coming too fast, light long red. In the dream I stood on the northeast corner and shouted, and the woman stepped back, and the car tore through where the pram would have been. Then, absurdly specific: the streetlight above me buzzing in pulses of three.

I woke and it would not fade the way dreams fade; it sat there, appointment-like. The dusk in the dream had a particular ripeness — I judged it around seven. I fought with myself all day about it in both directions and lost both arguments, so at 6:40 that evening I was standing on the northeast corner of Mercer and Vine feeling like a complete fool. Above me, the streetlight buzzed. Pulses of three. My mouth went dry.