One night I have a dream I am being stalked by a hit man—or a hit woman, rather. She has a badge and is dressed like a lawyer, although slightly disheveled and with a French accent. She has been following me for days when I finally turn around and confront her.
“Look. You don’t have to do this. It’s not etched in stone,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says, holding her gun inside her suit jacket. “I do. It’s my job.”
“Please,” I keep saying to her. “I have kids. They are little. And they need me. Can you give me just a few more years? I promise to go nicely if you can let me have a few extra years with them.”
In the dream, I cry in a way I have never cried before. I am hysterical. The situation is too cruel. This is the saddest thing I have ever imagined.
“We will see,” she says, shrugging and walking away. “I will see what I can do.”
I tell John about the dream when we wake up.
“Oh my God,” he deadpans, pulling me close, hugging me. “Imagine if something like that were actually happening to you.”
I punch his arm. All day I am haunted by what I am unable to feel.