In the dream you settle it with pool cues. Not even a duel. They’re not weapons, no-one saws them off like shotguns or sharpens them as stakes or baseball bats them into a face. It’s a clean match. Your palm might even touch his palm before you begin because this is how men settle things; sport.
Which is why my hand’s over my eyes. Not because I’m easily offended by macho-ocity, or I’m upset that I’ll be made to stick to a decision I didn’t make, though that would upset me. I’m not watching and what you’ve all forgotten is, it’s my choice, only. May feel like I’m viewing an act play out to unsatisfactory conclusion but, actually, when my brain gets better than jelly, it won’t matter who won this match or the next, who scored higher on an internet test, who the 153 articles I’ve read say I should be with.
My eyes aren’t hidden because my sensibilities are offended. They’re closed because it doesn’t matter. I’m not the one waiting. And the pool? You’re both filling time while I think. And I think think think think think.