“Back again?”

Art nods.

“Same flask?”

Another nod. Always the same flask.

Parataxis leads Art past aimless dream browsers to the back room.

Reaches a flask from a head-high shelf. Tenebrous emerald vapour writhes and swirls within the bulbous form.

“Getting low…”

Art shrugs. Hands over two crumpled notes.

“Sweet dreams.”

Art doesn’t reply. Heads to a booth in the darkness, draws the shabby curtain closed.

The cork stopper releases easily, loose through repeated use. But snug enough to prevent the precious contents leaking.

Misty green tendrils crawl up the slender glass neck. “Like it knows me…”

Art leans forward, eyes closed, nostrils flaring in anticipation of the sweetly acrid aroma. He inhales with a rush of possibility. Trembling hands scrabble to stopper the bottle and preserve the dwindling supply of hope before consciousness fades to black.

There have been many dreams. But still only one encounter. So far.

Months before. A dance hall in an indeterminate era. In the way of dreams, crinolines cavorted with cutthroats, familiar faces spoke with unfamiliar voices, a celebrity chef gossiped with Art’s factory foreman, timescales twisted and warped. Then that vivid spark of carmine, ringletting over bare caramel shoulders.

Later: “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m pretty?” She was, and he did. Corny but effective. Then the kiss. The kiss which followed him far beyond the end of the dream and infuses his every waking moment. The kiss he has to find just once more before…

In the greasy dawn light, Art turns his steps toward a 12 hour shift. A chill wind cuts straight through him, too lazy to go around. He feels acutely the dual burden of an unwelcome absence and an unwelcome presence.

What started the size of a blueberry has grown to a lemon has grown to a grapefruit. Now Art has run out of fruits. And is running out of dreams.

He’s unsure which is worse – the pain of the growth or the pain of not finding her.

So Art visits Somnia Dulcia as frequently as his meagre salary affords.

He has glimpsed her across raging bridgeless rivers. Pursued her around corners to find slavering, indefatigable creatures blocking his path. Once even, been so close behind her in a sweltering sand-dusted market that he caught the scent of her sun-kissed skin, reached out a hand toward her shoulder, only to wake as his fingertips brushed her unwitting flesh.

As he walks, he calculates. Food, rent, medication, debts… two weeks before his pay packet re-opens the doors of Somnia Dulcia to him.

“Been a while. Not much left now…” Parataxis hands Art the flask. Shoves notes in a grubby apron pocket.

Enshrined in darkness, Art removes the stopper, lays it beside him. No need to replace it. Straggly wisps of vapour pool and shift. Down to the dregs. Art inhales, flings the flask to the stone floor, shattering into countless glittering shards. He lays back. Eyes closed. Waiting.

“Back again?”

A brush of fingertips against his skin.