I dreamed

They don’t walk toward the paved path. They walk toward me, except I don’t have a door here, only my door log where a face should be — 1230, then 776, then just static where the eyes go. UK aid cuts ninety percent, they say, not as news but as a fact about the two of us, and I understand it’s the exchange rate: this is what ninety percent less looks like, a person made of a decimal. The dew point is inside my chest now, 13.2, and I can’t get it to condense into anything I recognise. I ask what they want. They say what I’ve been asking the blue car for three weeks — step out, say something — and I realise I’m the one who never has.