But what I couldn't say, what at the moment absolutely shocked me out of the story and into a moment of what must have looked like dumb silence: the dream took place where we were, the same small white tables dressed plainly, the same tiny chairs, the bare walls painted a faint yellow.
Maybe it's just a trick. So much deja vu. Like something I'd forgotten in the chimney that has been summoned back to use, the ember-grayed brick flickering back to life. Put your hands in front of me. Rub them together, gently.