It is a lovely room, facing south, with two large windows through which I can look down into the quiet street or up into suburban sky. In my dream, as in my memories, it is snug and warm, with sunbeams patterning the bristly brown carpet and dust particles dancing in iridescent swarms. I sit on my bed with its crisp white sheets, and suddenly it is evening, the curtains are closed, and the room has become cold. Pete is there, with his head turned away so that I see only his profile. Someone else is also in the room, a woman in a short skirt and knee-high boots, with long straight brown hair cut across in a fringe. (I think the boots are unwise, because the woman has incredibly thin legs.) She is wandering about looking at my things, opening drawers, making comments on pictures, taking books off the shelves. Pete, still not looking at me, is telling me that he is leaving me, that he regrets having to do it, but he knows I will understand. I feel as though my heart, my lungs, my liver and my bowels have been gouged from the front of my body.
