K.

This morning I woke up from a nightmare. In my dream, I am expecting my friend K. to come and visit me in Brooklyn. Except that it doesn't look like Brooklyn at all but rather like Grenoble. She is late. One day. Two. She is late and I have no idea why. I'm nervous and worried. One day I notice something in an alley and it's K.'s body. Someone killed her just a few feet away from my door.

Her body looks like bodies do in old movies. She looks beautiful. She looks asleep.

I hold her in my arms. This is a dream. I know it is just a dream. She's not really dead. This is just a dream. Or is it? Another friend, Violaine arrives and immediately understands the situation. She tells me to go home. She tells me to call the police. She says, It's not a dream.

Later I'm in London in an English red bus, on the tracks of K.'s killer.

End of the dream -- of what I remember. Unpleasant wakening.

I like having nightmares. But I don't like nightmares of this kind. So that evening, feeling stupid, I sent an email to K. telling her about my dream. A few minutes later her reply arrives from Eastern Europe. She says she's fine. She says it's strange that I had that dream because she just had a dream in which she was dying too. She was stuck in a sinking submarine with no hope of seeing the sun again. She was in the submarine preparing her death. Talking herself into accepting it.

She says it's unusual for her to have this kind of dream. Her dream, she says she thought about it all day.