Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [86]
Wait. You said I’m using you as the means for having a sort of somatic Socratic dialogue, right? Like you’re a representation of another part of my own psyche. Right?
Uh … I guess so.
So I’m really having this conversation with myself.
More or less. Yes. According to that theory.
Which means I’m the all-knowing one, not you.
So when you’re having one of these conversations with yourself, you really should listen more closely to what you’re saying.
Me as you or me as me?
I am me as you are me as you are we as we are the walrus, goo goo g’joob …
Har-dee-har-har. Are you sure this is a dream? My dreams aren’t usually so talk-talk-talky.
You’re right. Your dreams are usually more visual.
Like the business on the beach and in the park.
Right. That’s your usual style. So maybe this isn’t your dream. Maybe it’s someone else’s dream.
Someone else’s dream? How would I end up in someone else’s dream?
Come on. You dated that pot-smoking philosophy major in college. You’re telling me you never smoked too much weed and got into one of those “what if we’re all characters in someone else’s dream?” meaning-of-life conversations?
That’s irrelevant. Of course it’s my dream. If it’s not my dream, then whose dream is it? Yours? I’m just a character in your prolonged-coma dream?
You got it! Just like the surprise twist revealed in the final episode of a long-running dramedy!
Oh my God! I’m a figment of your imagination? How long has this been going on? Since I encountered the wedding party on the beach?
Maybe earlier than that.
This whole day with Marcus has been a dream?
Maybe earlier than that.
What? My whole life?! OH MY FUCKING GOD.
Now who gargled with the toilet water, Ms. Potty Mouth? Reeeeeelax. I’m just messing with you. This is totally your dream. Our brains dream for hours at a time, but we remember only a fraction of images upon waking. So you probably won’t remember this whole conversation as being part of the dream. You’ll be left with the memory of Marcus in the Barry Manilow suit and me sitting up in this bed with my bad hair, telling you that you suck.
That’s all I’ll remember?
No. You’ll remember the earlier stuff on the beach and stripping down in Central Park. Those all-caps dream symbols are memorable by design.
Are you sure this is my dream?
I’m sure. Because if it were my dream, I would not waste time talking to the likes of you. My dream would not be suitable for viewers under the age of eighteen, because I would totally be doing the freaky deaky with Marcus Flutie.
Sunny! That’s inappropriate!
What? I said “freaky deaky,” not “fucky sucky.”
What did you say? I can’t hear you over Barry Flutie. Or is he Marcus Manilow?
You know I can’t smile without you …
What?! It’s too loud! I can’t hear you!
Can’t smile without you …
What?
Can’t smile without you …
WHAT?!
Can’t smile without you …
thirteen
The elevator doors ding! open, and Marcus marches out of the vestibule like a man on a mission. His harried pace is at odds with his leisurely attire, but he tries not to give a second thought to all the snickers and giggles as he hurries through the front lobby toward the hotel gift shop. As he approaches the all-glass entrance to the shop, he’s relieved to see that it’s still open but nearly emptied of customers because it’s dinnertime. He grips the ends of his terry-cloth belt and gives them a firm tug, as if to shore himself up for the task at hand.
His hand is on the glass, ready to push open the door, when his phone buzzes inside his pocket. He removes his hand from the door, leaving behind a moist five-fingered print, and removes his cell from his pocket. He’s hoping it’s Jessica calling him from upstairs. He’s disappointed but not surprised to discover that it’s Natty yet again.
“What’s up, Pampers?” Marcus says.
“Dude, where the hell are you?”
Marcus sighs as he watches his handprint evaporate. He puts his hand in the same spot, then pushes open the door to the store. “I’m at SHOP Here,” he explains, making an effort to establish