I woke up this morning and my electric bedroom clock said it was 3:30. As in the afternoon. I immediately suspected that Gill had changed it to trick me, because I NEVER sleep into the afternoon. Ever. It makes me feel guilty for wasting daytime.
I asked him if it was a trick.
“No,” he replied, “You must have just been really, really tired.”
I looked out the window. It was overcast and it could very well have been 3:30, judging from the sky.
Gill looked at his cell phone. “It’s 3:30pm, alright.”
“Wow, that sudden storm must have really taken it out of me! It’s like sleep ripped through me like that wind ripped through our neighborhood!”
Then I told him all about the series of complicated and vivid dreams I’d had, involving a horse that turned into a man when I gave him a bowl of milk, attending a writing workshop with Catherynne Valente, and being unable to find the National Arts Centre in order to meet my parents there.
Then I got up and walked into the kitchen and discovered that the power had gone off in the night and it was really 9:30 in the morning.
And… I was almost disappointed. Think of all the even more vivid and complicated dreams I could have had if I HAD slept until 3:30 in the afternoon!