(Entered in paper journal at 9:05 AM at the Tea Lounge on Union Street and 7th Avenue in Brooklyn.)
Dream 1
I was at a restaurant, probably an all-you-can-eat buffet, with two "friends," a man and a woman who looked like my friend KB's lesbian lover AN. We sat together at a booth table. The two "friends" sat across the table from me. The interior of the place was brown, woody, and leathery.
I asked the woman some question that might have put her in a position to let go of some secret she didn't want to let go of.
Now the friends were finished eating. I got so much to eat that I still wasn't done. I had one more bowl. They headed out. I figured I had enough time while they looked for the car and then brought it here that I could eat my last bowl of food.
But now I was sitting at a line of table booths that were all pushed together so a group of older folks could sit there. I was being pushed out. I hadn't finished my food. I thought I would really quickly make a sundae, then, and eat it out on the sidewalk for my friends.
I poured some not great-looking soft-serve ice cream and put on some toppings I wasn't really pleased with. Then I put on some watery, mucky chocolate syrup. I realized this syrup wasn't what I wanted, that I always make this mistake when I go to buffets. I get chocolate syrup when what I really want it hot fudge. So I looked around the ice cream buffet (which was right by one of the restaurant's yellow-stained-glass front windows) for a hot fudge dispenser.
There was something way up high, but it wasn't right somehow. I pulled my dish back down. It was momentarily a clear, Tupperware jug in which were lumps of ice cream leaning against a glass (?) bottle of some Italian syrup, the name of which was like DeCecco.
I walked along all the buffets, looking for hot fudge. I found one buffet where there were a few containers that looked like they were for hot fudge. I took my dish up there. Some of them definitely looked like they didn't work. Others were empty. I tried another, the nozzle of which was over a tub of what looked like old hot fudge diluted by melting ice cubes.
A few pretty, black waitresses stood around me, talking among themselves. I pressed down the button of the dispenser. A bunch of watery, gross stuff sprayed out of the nozzle. I moved my ice cream out of the way just in time not to get it sprayed, except possibly a tiny bit. The girls all laughed at me. I couldn't tell whether they hated me.
I shyly said, "Uh, I knew that was a XXXXX container. I'm just frustrated I can't find any hot fudge."
One of the girls may have pointed me toward another buffet. I walked toward the buffet, which was closer to the front door. I could see out the front door.
I realized now that I was too late to meet up with my friends, and all because I was obsessed with making a good sundae.
I was now in a frenzy, panicked to get out the door to catch up with my friends, even though I likely wouldn't be able to. Nevertheless, I paused a moment, not really concerned with eating, or staying in the restaurant, but rather with slowing myself down enough so that I could reflect on what feeling it is, what satisfaction I get from hot fudge, that makes ice cream seem less inconvenient to eat, and why I was so obsessed with finding that feeling.
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