When I awoke at 4AM, I thought that the bedroom windows had been shut. They were open; the crickets were just suppressed for the first time this summer by the cold.
In my dream I was back in Ireland, all but imprisoned in a miniature pub -- one built on the scale of the munchkins from Oz. There was a single booth, and a cubby hole with storage leading to a tiny bath. It was an act of contortion to pass from one to the other.
I sat, alone, at the booth, admiring a white grease board with the offerings of the day listed on it in orange cursive. It pleased me that they were ad hoc and that they had been set out with a personal touch, but not a word on the board could be read; the handwriting was indecipherable.
My solitude was broken only when a beautiful young girl with a helmet of black hair popped her head in, smiled, and then retreated without a word.