Baklava.

Dear Simon,

I went to bed with a fever at noon and woke after a two hour dream. The adventures of Simon and Meg. The dream unfolded outside of a dark bakery on Laurier East. Unsure if the bakery was open or not, we went in looking to satiate my hunger. Inside there sat a strange multigenerational family. They stared at us as we took in the dimly lit spread before us but offered no service. Nothing caught my eye. You ordered Baklava. The order fell on deaf ears leaving you no choice but to reach over and help yourself. It was too sweet for me. We sat side by side in a brown booth in need of repair overlooking the street. You ate something straight out of my mouth and I laughed deeply causing the family to stand up and switch positions at the family table like a staged dance. It was bizarre though there was no time to discuss their behavior. Suddenly Laurier East and Montreal were gone, replaced with slanted streets--cobbled and dusty. My shoe trouble began in the brown booth. You kept encouraging me to choose one of the pairs in my arms as my feet were bare and vulnerable, but I was defiant and held all three pairs in protest. The weather picked up on a dime. Wild wind. Anticipating the windows to blow out, we left in a hurry without thanks. You found a skateboard and two giant format newspapers in the ally and handed one to me. I thought the newspaper was a stupid idea considering the strength of the wind and lack of rain and refused. As I was trying to find a missing grey shoe from my bundle, I looked up in time to watch you fly down a steep cobblestone street without me. I was amazed you were able to ride down considering the conditions. Finally able to make a footwear decision, I bent down close to the ground and recognized the soil between the stones of the street. We were in India. I wanted to tell you, but you were long gone. The straps of my sandals wouldn't clasp though I continued on, carrying my bundle in the direction that you had taken. When the sound of a small child crying caught my ear in the wind, I ran with shoes slapping like palms on my feet. After zigzagging my way down, I finally came upon you and a hysterical blonde girl. After much convincing, she sat on my lap and named her pain. Elbows, knees, wrists. I gave her my favorite pair of little gray shoes to console her. Her feet were bare and she clutched the shoes to her chest. The two of you had collided at a corner while flying downwards on separate streets. She was on an old toy scooter. Emma Albelleny was the name written on the inside of her hat along with a long telephone number. I thought it was strange as it is the same hat you cook in--leather strap, grease and all--but said nothing of it. She was the daughter of a diplomat. I called the number and spoke with her mother who I could see leaning out of a balcony far up the street where I had just bent to fix my shoes. The girl was four, too small to be left alone. Nothing was resolved and she ran away with the shoes before I hung up with her mother. You kneeled down and took my ankle on your knee and tied the broken strap with a braid fashioned out of the newspaper. It impressed me. "Let's go", you said. "Okay". We left and I woke.