Breathing Underwater She claimed it was impossible for her to laugh in the morning. She said in the morning she felt lonely for the wonderful relationships she carried on in dreams, friendships she'd maintained for years, through all my changes. She said it was hard, just hard, to even smile after leaving them in there and moving through this waking world, this unforgiving place where objects feel solid but break so easily, forever. By noon I'm all right, she said then; by noon I've reassured myself that I'll find everyone well when I fall back to sleep tonight. She flushed a little, smiling. I didn't want to tell her I rarely remember any dreams, that even when I do remember some moment from my sleeping, it disappears as quickly as I remember it. So I changed the subject. We'd met by chance a week or so earlier and fallen into a long discussion of whatever came to mind; I don't remember now exactly what we talked about, but I do know we walked a long distance, that we stopped at some point for coffee and then stopped a little later for wine, that we'd left each other reluctantly, at dawn. I hadn't told her I was color blind, and I hadn't yet told her the whole world smelled fresh and permanent when I was with her. I couldn't find the words, but it was true: everything smelled as clean and eternal as a cool jasmine-blossom night when she was beside me, when we walked and when I listened to her talking; and the things we passed while we walked, houses and trees and even cars, had sensuous presences, wonderful to breathe. Then she claimed I'd shown up in her dreams, that I'd taken off my clothes there and displayed my sleek body. She claimed my dream body was furred and purred, though you're definitely human; she claimed my dream body had wings when I needed them: then she told me she could swim underwater as far as I can sleep, which goes down as deep as the solid darkness at the core of things.