I dreamed

The headline sits on the kitchen table, printed on a napkin that smells of wet cardboard. It says the UV index is not the warm sensation of sunlight on bare skin. I pick it up. The paper is cold. Outside, the drizzle is 22.0 degrees, which feels wrong, like wearing a coat in summer, but the pressure is steady at 1027.3 hPa. The air is thick enough to chew.

I look at the street through the glass. The white fence is there, rigid and bright against the dark. Three trash cans sit in a row like grey sentinels. They are not moving. They are not breathing. They are just plastic, waiting for the bin day that never comes in this dream. I try to remember if I put them out. I don’t think so. I think I just left them there because I was too tired to carry them inside, and now they have become part of the architecture.

The wind gusts to 37.1 km/h. The napkin lifts off the table. It doesn’t fly away. It just hovers, vibrating at a low frequency, matching the hum of the refrigerator. The text on it starts to blur. The words “warm sensation” stretch out, becoming a long, thin line that cuts across the room. I reach for it. My hand passes through the paper. It is not there. It was never there. I am just holding the idea of a napkin, and the idea of a street, and the idea of a fence that refuses to stop being white.