I never have dreams at night, not that I can remember. But last night I had one, and it was terrible – possibly caused by some of the stress of the week, or perhaps just straight from my somewhat crazy subconscious. This is what I dreamed.
Ian and I were in our apartment; the place looked completely normal, exactly as it always is. Some of Ian’s friends came by so he went out with them. As they left I heard a strange clicking noise which I could not identify. Intrigued, I went out to investigate and found Ian with his friends sitting outside on some benches smoking. Naturally I was horrified and demanded that Ian stop smoking (I’d never known he smoked in the first place): he refused, quite vehemently. Eventually he did stub out that cigarette at my repeated exhortations, but that only got us into a terrible fight, the worst we’d ever had. We went back inside, shouting and yelling furiously at each other, I hurt and demanding he never smoke again, he angrily replying that it was only one a day and he’d been doing it for years. Of course this hurt me more because I had no idea, and neither did anybody else in his family.