I’ve really concentrated on the dreams this week.
They are all now so familiar to me that I’m able to take a step back and see
what’s truly going on within them and look for clues, for things that are there
which will help me understand. That’s both for my own benefit and because I
desperately wanted to impress Mister Dexter Phillips. All week long I’ve been
thinking about him, and what Denise said. That he is the man who has worked
hardest to find the key to all of this, that he has the keenest understanding
of what is happening to all the people (and it’s not just me) who dream. I
didn’t want to go in there clueless, I didn’t want to be stumbling in with
nothing to offer. Undoubtedly I want him to help interpret my dreams, but I also
want to interpret some of them myself.
We met in the same coffee house that I‘d met Elvina/Denise
in last week. Initially when I arrived
Denise was there alone and she greeted me with a soft kiss on the cheek and a
nervous little smile. I felt myself sink within my shoes for a second, thinking
that for some reason he hadn’t come. There was no problem though, she said, and
then she left me at the table with an Americano and went out – with perhaps a
little stardust in her eyes – to fetch him.
As the door opened I could feel the presence of him straight
away, the sheer assurance. He’s really not a big man, being – I think – no
taller than five foot five, but he greets the world with a solid confidence.
Dexter Phillips walked in with a swagger, wearing tight jeans and a brown
leather jacket. He’s a good looking guy, with blue eyes, tanned skin and wavy
blonde hair – like some California surfer dude exiled from the 1960s. We shook
hands and he smiled me a capped smile and then he sat down in front of me.
We faced each other.
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