“This is your marriage.”
Last night I dreamed I was in (or was writing) a story already written by a famous writer who I know as a friendly acquaintance (and who I don’t wish to embarrass by publicly naming here). The story resembled a story the writer had published last year in the New Yorker, and which I had recently heard him read. Toward the end of the dream, the character’s name changes from something else to the writer’s actual first name, which my dream-self takes to be a kind of mini-reveal. The last four lines I remember very clearly:
Snap out of it, [first name].
This is your marriage.
This is your life.
There are no easy ways out.
And then I woke up.
