Karen M Roberts has created something that is mysterious and revelatory at once; this story has been haunting my own sleep since I first read it, and I hope it does the same for you. She rocked the cup in her hands, watching them swirl. Max raised the page of newsprint closer to his nose.
The lucid dreams provided by the night owls were realistic and recurring, a secondary life experienced while the body rested.
Who had designed the owls no one knew; they had simply arrived, winging down with the gift of pleasure without consequence, of fulfillment without price. Claudette had never spoken to Max about her dream husbands, and she had no desire to know about the fantasy women with whom he spent his nights. Claudette could almost make out the reversed words. A woman would have known to stop talking, but Max soldiered on.
Maybe I should call her. It tasted of pomegranate and clover. Thanks, Naia , she thought bitterly. And no spelling words. She snatched up her passcard, shoulder bag, and a filmy cinnabar scarf, which she wrapped around her careful curls. It reminded her of something. A book? Hookah mix for twelve already lay nestled in her bag. Barely skipping a beat, he smoothly shifted gears. The clerk nodded and reached beneath the counter for a slim tube of ointment.
Claudette whisked her passcard through the laser and tucked the ointment into her shoulder bag. She glanced down into a mirror on the countertop. Spirals with branching, filigreed arms coiled against each eyelid, and down across the apples of her cheeks. Before the door chimes had even finished their welcome dance, Max called from the bedroom. Gary said that Jane was thinking of having it done.
