“Please Take a Seat (But Not in This Lifetime)”

Date: 11/15/2025

I wake up, or at least I think I do — because everything looks the same, but feels… off. Like I’ve slipped sideways into a knockoff version of my life. A Poundland parallel universe. The sleep hypnosis I fell asleep to is still whispering in the background, the words drifting around my head like lazy helium balloons. When I get up, the world tilts slightly. My bladder is — of course — full to the brim. Nothing dreamlike about that recurring saga. But then I notice the curtains are open, letting daylight poke its nosy fingers into the room. I know I closed them. Worse: my cupboard — traitor that is — is glowing from the wrong side of the room. “Hmm… something fishy is going on here,” I think, in the tone of a detective who has solved exactly zero cases. I check my phone: 25% battery. I swore I put it on charge. My earbud case? Nowhere. Not on the bedside table. Not under it. Not hidden in some sock dimension. Reality feels like it’s lagging. And then — another layer swallows me whole. Suddenly I’m by the seaside, perched on a bench, waves crashing in the distance like they’re offended by something I’ve said. It’s all bliss, until two strangers plonk themselves practically on top of me. I scoot away with the elegance of a disgruntled crab. Anti-social swine that I am. The dream flickers. I’m back in bed, floating between worlds. And in a sudden stroke of genius — Einstein reincarnated — I realise: “Hang on. I’m dreaming.” But it’s too late. My eyes snap open. Reality floods back in: bladder about to burst, earbuds still in my ears, phone now at 86% (better, but rude), and the earbud case sitting smugly on the side. My husband is — predictably — in the shower. Every. Damn. Time. My bladder emits a desperate little eep. Should I go back to sleep or wait for the bathroom? This is my nightly Shakespearean tragedy. Before the decision can kill me, the world shifts again. I’m suddenly at the work depot — of course I am — except instead of sorting mail, we’re sorting PlayStation games with old-school plastic cases. Dreamland really knows how to romance me. I’m in heaven, alphabetising like my life depends on it, until Robin barges in. “Can you leave my games alone?” she barks. “Oh,” I say. “Didn’t realise they were yours.” She grabs them from my perfectly curated order and flings them willy-nilly onto a top shelf. Hours of work destroyed in a single chaotic swoop. But the dream doesn’t care about my emotional recovery. Music swells. The lights dim. A massive dance floor appears like something out of an over-the-top Eurovision performance. It flashes my name. It demands me. I storm it like Beyoncé on a budget. My arms fling, my legs flap, my hips attempt a rebellion. Ricky Gervais could never. Two newcomers step onto the dance floor, shiny dresses reflecting the disco lights and their own self-satification. They look me up and down, doing that silent “how big is the threat” scan. Spoiler: they underestimate me. Dance-off. Unspoken, but loud as a klaxon. The crowd forms a circle. They clap, cheer, brace for chaos. And chaos they shall have. The girls leap, twirl, sparkle. They’re annoyingly good. But I refuse to be upstaged. Not in my own dream. I swan-attack them — arms flapping like I'm trying to take flight. Then I commit fully to the spectacle: I drop to the floor and spin on my back like a malfunctioning turntable-turtle hybrid. The crowd loses its mind. For a moment, I’m unstoppable. Until the girls strut back in and perform the Dirty Dancing lift. Perfectly. Of course. Show-offs. “Boring!” I yell. “Seen it too many times!” Someone wolf whistles. Jordan. Filthy as ever. Fine. If they want big — I’ll give them cinematic. Napoleon Dynamite mode, activated. Moon boots metaphorically strapped on. I dance like a giraffe tap-dancing with paper bags on its hooves. Arms thrusting in and out of my legs like a woman gone mad. The crowd is ecstatic. Someone yells, “Girl can dance!” I attempt the splits. My body disagrees. I collapse like a budget ironing board. I feel my soul leave my torso. The dream pauses. The crowd gasps in sympathy and mild second-hand embarrassment. I have lost. Defeated, I offer the girls a congratulatory handshake, but they’re too busy preening themselves like iridescent peacocks. The floor drops away beneath me, because dream logic has no chill. Suddenly I’m at an airport, waving my husband off. Alex stands beside me, wide-eyed. “Why does Dad always have to go?” he asks. “He’s got to work,” I say. “Bills won’t pay themselves.” “Mum… he’s going on an all-inclusive lads holiday.” “Oh.” That’s news to me. My husband strolls off into the distance, suitcase squeaking like a guilty conscience. And then I see her. Kylie. Sitting on a bench. Her brunette curls bouncing in that infuriating, effortlessly-photogenic way. Our history, cracked and delicate, hangs between us. I give her a small, awkward smile. She doesn’t speak. Just taps the bench beside her. An invitation. A gesture she would never, ever offer me in the real world. I sit. And as soon as I do… everything shifts. A soft click inside me. A knowing. Her form flickers at the edges, not fading but unravelling, like shes made of threads of memory being gently tugged loose. A soft ache blooms behind my ribs. This is just a dream. Because Kylie — real Kylie — would never offer me a seat. Not now. Not after everything. The realization stings more than I expect. More than it should. It lodges itself under my skin, sharp and familiar. The airport dissolves. Her outline dissolves last. And when I wake — truly wake — there’s a small hollow space beside me where a friendship used to live.