Not a detail-laden one. Work-flavored dream. Trying to make my hands function without pain. Manual dexterity is impeded. Stumblebum reaction time.
Am trying to apologize to Bertie, my manager, for inventing a dumb nickname for him. ("Tu-bertie-losis", because he's been struggling with respiratory whatever for five plus weeks, now.)
Inability to get a clean grip on things is humbling. Some sort of hint that kitchen space is haunted? But it doesn't look like a kitchen. Basically resembles a redressed set: the hardwood floors suggest to my conscious mind that it's my grandparents' house, again.
What else... An old chevy-- I believe? Am no good at remembering makes & models of cars --is parked indoors. In what would have been the 'dining room' in my grandparents' house, if it were twice the size, but in the nature of dreams this space, directly adjacent to the kitchen, doubles as our prep space. The ragtop has a faintly eggy paint job, the kind of hardbaked cream colour one gets from being parked in the sun overlong. Even the chrome looks blistered. Salt damage, I assume. Whose car is this, anyhow?
The "ghost" of the kitchen watches me strain & fumble, trying to apologize to Bertie, the scoop springing loose of my grip and clattering on the floor. The "ghost" seems youthful, but unknown to me....
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