I wake up standing, like the dream had been sucker-punched out of me. Better this way. Irene sleeps like a Greek queen after a wine-drenched orgy. I don't want to wake her. Knowing her, not even an earthquake would shake her—but still, why tempt the gods?
I head to the kitchen and make a coffee as dark as it gets. No sugar, no milk, no hope. I pour it into a mug I'm not sure is clean. I sit in front of my laptop, that sacred mountain, and keep climbing the infinite novel. I want it to be eternal. A story where anything can happen. Where blood mixes with poetry and characters kill each other out of love or hunger. Writing keeps me alive. It's my drug. And I'm my own dealer. I shoot up words and keep breathing.
The good thing about writing is that it costs nothing. The bad thing is that living does. And writing, so far, hasn't made me a single cent to pay for food, water, internet, or this apartment. Thankfully, I have Irene. We're both nineteen. I dropped out of university after two weeks. Too noisy, too many people without hunger. Irene didn't follow my path. She actually goes to class. Gets good grades. Doesn't dream of becoming an artist. She's smart. I wish I were, too. I wish I could see the world without overthinking. I wish I were a cold-hearted bastard, objective and ruthless. One of those men who walk tall and win. But no. I'm the other kind of bastard. The one who thinks too much. The one who daydreams and writes impossible novels.
What's not impossible is this apartment—which isn't mine or Irene's, but her father's. A man I've never met, but who pays the bills on time. Thanks to him, we live like fallen nobility. She like a queen. Me like a kept king.
If there's one thing my father—a second-rate conman who always managed to avoid real work and still smell of cheap cologne—taught me, it's this: "Never get involved with a girl who's broke. You're lower middle class, kid. If you date someone like you, you're never getting out of the hole. Always go for the rich ones." And, well, I took that advice to heart.
After writing a few pages, I get bored. The coffee's gone cold. I open a new tab and start watching porn. Interracial. Not to jerk off. Just to watch. Don't ask me why. Sometimes I like observing human desire the way someone watches a fire from a window: knowing it'll burn everything, unable to do anything, and still unable to look away.
Irene shows up silently, half-asleep, wearing an old T-shirt that doesn't quite cover her panties. She's five foot eight. Legs like a feral ballerina. Her hair's a mess, like she fought a storm and almost won. She looks beautiful.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
She can't see the screen. The volume's on mute. She has no clue.
"Watching porn. Black guys with white girls. White guys with Black girls," I say, straight-faced.
"Would you like me to be Black?"
"That's a trap question."
"It is. But you answered well. You're clever."
"Sometimes. Want some coffee?"
"Of course. But first we have to fuck, right?"
"Always. Priorities."
We laugh a little. Not like a movie couple. Like two partners in crime who understand what really matters: coffee, sex, and not talking too much about the things that might lead to existential doom.
Later, with my body relaxed and another fresh coffee in hand, I sit alone in front of the blank screen. Outside, the sky hangs low and gray. The whole city feels like it's holding its breath. And then, without warning, she comes back into my mind. Agnes. A woman I only see in dreams. She isn't real. Can't be. And yet I remember her more vividly than most people I've actually met. That's the fucked up part. There's something about her—something that feels too precise, too familiar. Like I've met her before. Like the dream is a memory trying to come back. Because somehow, I'm sure she knows me too. And maybe, just maybe, Agnes is real. And if she is, maybe I just walked into something I won't be able to walk out of.