Mice and starlets.

Dear Fleur.
I went for my run this morning, raked the leaves on the side yard, and then did my chicken chores. I have come to the conclusion that we need a cat. A mouse was in my chicken feed.
Mandy always wanted a kitten. Perfect Christmas gift. I'll go get her a barn cat's baby. Probably a boy.
My parents are going to hate me.

Last night I dreamed that I lived by myself in the city, and I had these very good friends. They were a married couple. He was handsome. She was gorgeous. Like, really gorgeous. She reminded me of a movie starlet. Dark wavy hair, bright red lips, big brown eyes, and she dressed in vintage pencil skirts. She liked when her husband read Tolstoy aloud to her.
We lived in the same row of apartments, and so they always came to my house for breakfast. We would sit in my kitchen and read and eat and draw pictures. I had manuscripts everywhere. Or, maybe it was just one manuscript everywhere. It was a mess. They were helping me edit. I was working on some screenplay. And a novel I think. But the novel was only half finished and in my kitchen cupboard.
That morning we had a lot of coffee. I made scones. And then we all made plans to go to the farmer's market or something.
So we went.
And we stayed out too late. I looked down at my white shift dress with bleary eyes. The husband bought his starlet wife a bunch of rosemary. She looked so pretty accepting it. Standing in the street with her red heels and tan skirt and loose white shirt. We walked back to the parking garage together. We were a hundred feet or so from my car. An old, pale yellow truck. He looked at his watch.
And she was shot in the back.
Many, many times.

My alarm woke me up before I could scream.
This was probably the most violent dream I've ever had. And I've had violent dreams. After "Saving Private Ryan" and "Black Hawk Down." I have had dreams where people got shot. With blood and crying and screaming.
Not like this though.
I was running this morning and I could still see her falling down and her pretty neck and her husband whipping around to catch her. She was my friend in my dream. A good friend. And she was dead.
I still feel like there's a knot in my own neck and holes in my own back.
She wasn't even real.

I have to make Brioche now and possibly donuts. Also finish my homework. But first I need to stop mourning dream girls.
This is going to be tricky.