In the dream, there was a desert, a sun-burnt sky, and a mountain that cut across the sand like the tail of a giant iguana. There were no characters, only a sad mountain and a lonely desert. She felt nothing. No desire, nothing to search for, and no fear. The scene stayed there in front of her for a very long time. The image never faltered, and never changed, and then she woke up.

In the morning, she lay in bed while Mark prepared for work. She felt the same, somehow, as when she dreamed, as if part of her was forgotten on that desert planet. He stood by the mirror, looping a striped tie through itself. A dull heat hung about the room, and the window needed to be opened. Outside, the day was beautiful. The sheet under her was stained in sweat.

She propped herself up on her elbow and watched him. He looked intently on himself, and his tie. “I think I saw the future last night,” she said.

“Oh? Any aliens?” He asked.

“No. It was just—like a desert. Can you open the window?”

She had the day off. They worked opposite schedules, for the most part, and these moments between events--preparing for work, brushing their teeth and drying off from the shower--were the meat and potatoes of their relationship.

“It was like a scene I remembered from my childhood. A mountain upstate New York that my parents took us to because our uncle had a cabin, and we’d hike in the woods, and there was this area where this mountain chugged across the valley. Otherwise the valley was perfect, with trees and grass and probably a stream, and then this rocky mountain just decided to zigzag across it. Only everything was dead and barren now. Like—really barren. Like Mars barren.”

“Why don’t you paint it? Paint them both. Before and after.”

After what? She thought maybe nuclear holocaust, but not there. Not up there in the middle of nowhere. That land would always be the same. Global warming, though, that could change things. Sure. “It was weird. That’s all.”

He turned and gave her a look that seemed to question her sanity and stability.

“Look, baby-cakes. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. People, you know, take care of these things. Things take care of things. I’m going to go to work.” On the dresser, besides a photo of the two of them at his father’s third wedding, his wallet, keys and cigar lighter are in the same spot they are in every morning. The last thing he does before work is stuff them back into his pocket. He stuffs them back into his pocket. “God, what’s gotten into you lately?”

“I don’t know. God. Can’t a girl do a little midnight fortune telling without her fiancé getting all up in arms against her?”

“Have a good day, alright? Get some sun.” He came over to the bed and kissed her on the forehead. She grimaced with the kiss.

“You get some sun,” she said, but then she felt bad because he had good intentions for her. God knows a little sun wouldn’t hurt her. “I’m sorry. Have a good day, honey.”

“You too.”

He left and she lay back in bed. She closed her eyes, listened for a minute to a few birds outside, the traffic rolling by, and then she pictured the one scene: the red sky, red desert, red mountains, all so similar in shade and hue, that they were barely distinguishable, as if a sandstorm swirled debris over everything. And then she recalled the past: the green tops of trees below her, stretched out like a model mountain that an old man might put together in his basement, each little tree like a toothpick decorated with green cloth. If the old man were with her, she’d ask how he recreated the texture of those trees-- how small they looked. If her arms were long enough she could snatch up bundles at a time. She fell back asleep and didn’t dream, but woke up feeling groggy, with nothing to do but watch daytime television and lie around the apartment, and wait for her boyafriend to come home.