Digging for Keys in the Ceramic Bowl by the Door

Digging for Keys in the Ceramic Bowl by the Door

I dreamed I was late for the 8:15, digging for my keys in the bowl by the door, except it was the ceramic one from my parents’ kitchen. Outside it was my street, but the bakery on the corner was the one from college. On the bus I sat next to someone who looked like my partner and talked like my old roommate, insisting we’d already picked the other apartment last year. I felt this dull guilt, like I’d misplaced a whole life. At the office the hallway to the meeting room kept stretching; I passed the same copier three times. I opened a door and it was my living room with different furniture and photos of kids I don’t have. I tried to text my actual partner and the phone showed two contacts with the same name. I almost sat down at the wrong table before I woke up, embarrassed and a little homesick for a place that isn’t mine.