by David Henson
You sit up and stretch your arms as I fumble for the alarm. I had the strangest dream, you say through a yawn. We had this luscious garden and grew all our own vegetables. Very strange because we live in a third-floor walk-up with no outdoor space but a Juliet balcony. Weirder yet because I had the same dream.
We turn in early after both having days that hollow us. Your bus was late, and you missed a big meeting. I was nearly flattened by a bicycle messenger. After we kiss goodnight, you whisper Sweet cucumbers in my ear. I tell you cucumbers aren’t sweet. They are in dreams, you say.
Silencing the alarm, I ask if you dreamed about cucumbers. Corn, you say. Golden in our garden. When I tell you I also dreamed of corn, you say I must be pulling your leg. I say that’ll have to wait until the weekend.
A day of no alarm. We stay in bed late and pull each other’s legs. That afternoon we go for a drive in the country and see a house with a garden, a couple working in it. They look so much like us, you say. I don’t think they do at all, but I don’t want to spoil your fantasy.
You wake me up before the alarm. Raccoons, you say, they got into our sweet corn. I groan and say I’d hoped I was dreaming. It’s all the same, you tell me.
Were they hurt? I tell you the wire I strung around the garden was low voltage. But didn’t you see the dew on grass? I assure you the raccoons are fine, and now our sweet corn will thrive. We go brush our teeth, you at the sink, me kneeling at the tub. One of my favorite memories.
You promised me our garden would flourish, you say, as I clasp your necklace, the one I always give you for our twelfth. I say I hadn’t anticipated the drought. That night we consider running the shower to encourage dreams of rain, but we’re afraid of the water bill.
I tell you how thankful I am for the steady, soaking drizzle. You stroke my cheek. Exactly what we needed.
We both get home too worn out to cook, so we order pizza. I finish a slice and tell you I have a confession to make — I really haven’t been dreaming about a garden. Neither have I. You take my hand and lead me toward our tiny terrace. The sound of your footsteps and warmth of your skin fade as we move through the dim apartment. I open the blinds and see, stretching far into the distance, tomato plants, corn, squashes, cabbages, potato vines … and my solitary reflection. This mustn’t be. I close my eyes, breathe, and see you again. Are you real? Shall I pinch you?
David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and has appeared in various publications including Best Microfictions 2025, Ghost Parachute, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, Bright Flash Literary Journal, and Literally Stories, His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His X handle is @annalou8.
