I had been featured in a coffee table book: when I got my advance copy in the mail, I was thrilled to see that there were lots of photos of me shot in grainy 70s style, barefoot and wearing a long, gauzy white dress and my purple puffer jacket, standing in a creek in a sunny forest and spinning on my tamarind Turkish spindle.
The Goodwill guy came to our house and picked up a bunch of junk to take away. As he was about to leave, I suddenly remembered that I had left the coffee table book on one of the bookshelves he had put in his truck, and ran out to ask if I could go and get it.
“Sure,” said the Goodwill guy. He was a burly black guy wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt–purple, I think.
I walked up the ramp into the back of the Uhaul-like truck, and suddenly heard a slam as the Goodwill guy rolled down the back of the truck, trapping me inside, and strode after me, grabbing me, lifting me, slamming me against the wall of the truck to rape me, and I felt suddenly so stupid for having trusted him and gone inside this truck where I was helpless and nobody could hear me scream. I woke up feeling all panicky and awful.
I had another dream last night, but I remember hardly any of it aside from going to pick up Molly so we could go out to dinner at some chain restaurant like Pasta Pomodoro.
