I dreamed about your pen. I went home after class and found your "special" pen in my bag. I put the pen back in my bag so I could return it, but found it later on my coffee table. I put it back in my bag again, thinking I must have thought I put in in my bag when I didn't. I went into the kitchen to make some dinner, breezed through a small stack of mail, and there it was again. The pen, sitting on the counter. I put it back in my bag. I buried it in the bag. I snapped the bag shut. Then I busied myself with this and that, the kinds of homey things that endlessly need doing, reached in my pocket for a tissue and extracted -- the pen. The pen, the pen, the pen! It wouldn't go away. It kept resurfacing. I began hiding it now -- throwing it in a drawer, stuffing it behind a pillow on the sofa, even throwing it in the toilet and flushing. It resurfaced. Shiny. Rolling towards me. Nudging me. Then poking me, jabbing me, the cap flew off and it began stabbing me, squirting me with ink. My eyes stung. I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. I grabbed my phone, pressed in your number and left you a message, "I've got your pen."
Hace Williams is a Seattle area author and journalist.