i meet myself in dreams sometimes.
past-me sits across the table, twenty-two and terrified. still believes in right answers. still thinks pain is optional. two sugars in the coffee, splash of milk. i remember that sweetness.
future-me leans against the window with the smug calm of someone who has forgotten how annoying he used to be.
the cafe is one i used to go to after lectures because the refills were free if the owner liked you. he did not like me, but he liked my friend, so i benefited from proximity.
past-me asks whether it works out.
"which bit?"
"all of it."
i consider lying. future-me raises an eyebrow, which is rude because it means i am still doing that later.
"some of it," i say.
past-me looks betrayed. he wanted a montage. he wanted the humiliation to become useful on schedule.
"you still check if they watched your story," future-me says.
"shut up."
so he is not enlightened. good. i was worried.
past-me says he will be famous by thirty. he says it like a threat. i remember the exact feeling: if the world did not notice me, i would disappear.
i want to tell him about the ordinary afternoons he will not trade back. the walk home with chips in his coat pocket. the first apartment with the radiator that sounded possessed. the person who laughs at the stupid private joke three years after it stopped being funny.
but that would sound like surrender to him.
future-me orders toast. apparently we become a toast person.
we sit there a while. three versions of the same problem, taking up too much table.
the dream fades like it always does. morning light through the window.
my coffee's gone cold. i drink it anyway.