Biggie Smalls is on my couch. With me. 
And some other chick who wants to be there way-y-y-y more than I do. I’m not sure why I am doing this. Not really sure what “this” is. The dream offers no answers. I am sure of how much I don’t want to.
Finally he falls asleep. And she has migrated to the bedroom.
I pretend to need to use the restroom when he’s roused by my attempt to get away. How will I escape? The bathroom is in the back of the apartment. The couch is in the front and faces the door. I leave something near the couch–I can’t tell what it is; a pillow maybe–to suggest my presence, tiptoe across the living room floor and to the front door.
It squeaks a little opening but I figure so long as I’m on the other side of it when he hears the noise, I’m safe. Surely he can’t run down the 2 or 3 flights of stairs as fast as I can. Descending the steps I stumble, nearly catching a bad one.
My escape is complete.
darlene anita scott 