That is your complaint, correct?" "Yes," you replied. The doctor scribbled something on a piece of paper atop of the table between him and you, then he looked back up, eyes landing on yours. "Well, would you mind telling me more about it?" he rested his chin on his palm, making himself comfortable. You slumped deeper into the couch, recalling every dream (or nightmare) that you've witnessed throughout the week.Everything was a blur. It was hard to recall such moments if you're in another world. They looked like a slideshow that doesn't make sense. "Take a deep breath, Ash. You don't need to force those memories. Let them come to you," the doctor's low voice disrupted your thoughts. You regained your focus once again, following his advice. You took a deep breath, then exhale, letting your muscles relax as the only thing your body is going to focus on is your mind. The images were less blurry this time. You saw a theme going on. Despite not being able to recall each dream, you were. The lights stayed on. The spectators herded over to a new event. The games must go on.* * *Disgusted with the city, she sauntered into a diner. Disheveled, wigaskew, pantyhose torn, she limped through the door. Out of breath, out ofcourage, out of patience, she sought sanctuary.The room treated her kindly, if indifferently. Old men, lives filled bytoo much vice, quietly focused on their steaks. Middle-aged women, livesused up with too much vice, gazed intently on their salads.She sat at the counter and ordered coffee.The waitress brought a cup, one napkin, two Kleenex, and a side order ofcompassion."You need a ride honey?" whispered the waitress.The woman shook her head. The room silently eyed the pair. A different match had begun. Tennisanyone? But were the participants going to be competitors or perhapsdoubles partners?"Rough night?" asked the waitress.The woman sighed."You don't want to talk about it, that's fine," said the waitress. Shestarted wiping down the diner's Formica.
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