Lily Briscoe

I’m sitting in my creative writing class, feeling oddly impatient. The class ends, I gather my books, and head out. I’m not on the QC campus. Rather, after I leave the building I find myself on Roosevelt Avenue underneath the #7 elevated train. Instead of hopping on a bus to go home, I decide to take a long walk to clear my head because I’m in a bad mood. After walking for a long time (I can’t remember much about this part), I decide to cross the street and head home.

The bus stop’s glass shelter is so large it’s almost a greenhouse. I walk inside, and find that I’m not the only one waiting for a ride. There is a college class taking place inside. And wouldn’t you know—the course was about dreams! I tell them that I’ve taken a similar course at Queens College. I’m talking excitedly, but none of the students share my enthusiasm. They basically ignore me as their teacher, a large, bald, stocky man, lectures them about how to write in a dream journal. I want to interrupt and regale them with my class’s experiences writing about our dreams. The teacher is really condescending and treating the students as if they are kindergarteners. Unfortunately, the next bus won’t be arriving until 1:00 AM, so I’m stuck.

Finally, the dark bus arrives and I walk up the stairs eagerly, with a fistful of coins for my fare. I’m so anxious to get moving that I end up paying $7 for my fare. But I don’t care. I just want to get home. After the class follows me into the bus, we drive off. It’s dawn.