Dregs

I don’t properly remember last night’s dreams. Not the lush cinematic ones with symbolism you can peel like fruit. Not the kind that leave you waking with a story in your mouth, warm and half-formed, already painting itself behind your eyes. These are the dregs. The cloudy sediment. The psychic pulp stuck to the bottom of the barrel once the good stuff’s already been drunk. So I drink them anyway. It begins with an email. Or rather, a thread. A back-and-forth with someone whose username feels like a wink from the universe. AstralFox77. Or ThirdEyeDreamer. Something vaguely mystical and slightly unhinged. We talk about lucid dreaming, consciousness, the way reality sometimes blurs at the edges, as if briefly remembering we’re all made of the same old star-stuff. They understand me in that intoxicating stranger way — no history, no baggage, just pure projection and possibility. I feel myself leaning into the screen like a neglected houseplant towards weak winter sun, stretching for warmth, for attention, for something that might pass as meaning. Weeks pass. Messages stretch longer. Warmer. Braver. My tea keeps going cold because I’m emotionally busy becoming someone slightly more fascinating in someone else’s inbox. A curated version of myself. A shinier draft. Less laundry. More mystique. Eventually the idea of meeting forms. Soft at first. Then bold. Then recklessly optimistic. I give them my address without even a flicker of self-preservation. My brain stamps the decision with a big spiritual APPROVED — complete with halo imagery and absolutely no safeguarding. The doorbell rings. I open the door and Lee from work nearly removes it from its hinges as she storms straight into me like a tactical breach. Lee. Lee of the catastrophic silences. Lee of the conversational tumbleweed. Lee who once worked a shift with me where we spent eight hours desperately scraping the bottom of human small talk like archaeologists excavating dust. “So… er…” “….” “…yeah.” Long pause. “Busy, is it?” “…yeah.” The kind of silence that starts to make noises of its own. Now Lee pins me against the wall with alarming confidence and zero warm-up. No awkward preamble. No polite checking in. No gentle “hi.” Straight to full-volume chaos. I feel something hard press against my leg. My brain sneezes and farts simultaneously. That’s a penis. Lee does not come with a penis. Does she? Have I overlooked a bulge in plain sight? Have I wildly misunderstood the concept of gender? Her face is intense. Focused. Vaguely terrifying. I think: I absolutely should not have let you in. I think: AstralFox is shockingly direct in person. I think: This is how true crime podcasts are born. The contrast is so violent it’s almost impressive — from painfully shy conversational beige to full throttle wall-slamming menace in under three seconds. No small talk. No easing in. Just straight to hallway shenanigans under dingy lighting, tumbling down a corridor I never meant to enter. I remain frozen to the spot, eyes unblinking, soul quietly drifting elsewhere. Possibly to a safer postcode. Then the scene drains away, like someone pulled the plug on the dream bath. I’m suddenly in town, pushing my enormous bright-red Royal Mail trolley — the kind that announces your employment status from space. It squeaks ominously. A mechanical death rattle. I spot Liz. My inner coward takes the wheel: Is there a bush I can dive into? A sewer grate I can slide down? Can the dream gods do me a favour and beam me somewhere — anywhere — else but here? Too late. She’s seen me. We approach each other in slow motion, trapped by British politeness and mutual social inertia. “Hi.” “Hi.” “So…” “…yeah.” There’s a pause long enough for a small mammal to build a nest between us. Followed by another pause. We are now legally required to exchange at least one sentence. “Do you still suck your dog’s paws?” I ask brightly. Of all the things. Of all the available human conversation options. “Yes,” she says, sheepishly. “Only on special occasions.” We stare at each other like a pair of confused pigeons mid-crumb negotiation, each waiting for the other to suddenly remember how being human works. Her boyfriend drifts over. His head is so large it’s one gust from toppling off his unnaturally small neck. He’s wearing boat shoes without socks, which tells you everything you need to know about his moral alignment. He radiates confident twattery. I suddenly remember when Liz and I were thick as thieves. Our kids growing up side by side. Long park days with cheap snacks and tired laughter. Swapping survival tips about motherhood and being skint. Sunburnt knees. Shared sandwiches. Shared exhaustion. Shared everything. Then life tilted. She climbed. Fair play to her — career ladder, shiny car, big house, son in private school. Maybe slept with a boss along the way, but honestly, we’ve all got to climb to the top somehow. Our worlds drifted apart. We drifted apart. Something delicate quietly snapped and never quite healed. She’s not the girl who used to crack bottles open with her teeth — she’s a carefully assembled version of herself now — straight lines, polished edges, unfamiliar weight. A stranger in a power suit with questionable taste in men. Success has tailored her into someone I no longer quite recognise. Boat Shoe Man scans me, my trolley, my entire existence. “Where’s your black and white cat?” He scoffs, thinking it’s the first time I’ve heard this wisecrack. Postman Pat, of course. Some people have no imagination. They collapse into hysterics. I feel myself shrinking into my hi-vis. I want the trolley to swallow me whole and roll me directly into the river. Or at least into a quiet bin where no one can perceive me ever again. Preferably one with a lid labelled ‘Human Disposal.’ Collection day: Never. The scene rolls away along with my embarrassment. Now I’m at a house party with Lou. We’ve forgotten the one essential ingredient for human interaction. Alcohol. This will not stand. We become ruthless. Predatory. Absolute menaces. We lift bottles from unattended windowsills. We pluck drinks straight out of strangers’ hands mid-sip. We liberate a suspicious decanter from a bathroom shelf like deranged sommeliers. We are Robin Hood with a drink problem. Our mountain of stolen booze grows gloriously obscene. A shrine to unhealthy life choices, glinting unforgivingly in the light. We stand back, hands on hips, proud of our morally flexible achievements. I gesture at the hoard. “Fancy one to celebrate our criminal empire?” Lou looks at me, puzzled. “Oh nah,” she says casually. “I’m tee-total, mate.” Are you shitting me? I stare at the bottles. At the labour. At the pointlessness. All that theft. All that cunning. For absolutely nothing. Of course. The scenes settle together now like mismatched bones forming a strange skeleton. A stranger who isn’t what I imagined. A mirror that makes me feel small. A reward that dissolves the moment I reach for it. Connection tilts into threat. Familiarity curdles into distance. Desire ferments into emptiness. Maybe that’s what the dregs really are — not the scraps themselves, but the emotional aftertaste they leave behind. That faint metallic tang of wanting meaning and repeatedly being handed something slightly wrong. Slightly warped. Slightly disappointing. Still. Even sediment tells a story if you swirl the glass long enough. Even the bottom of the barrel holds a kind of truth. Not clean. Not comforting. But honest in its own murky way. And sometimes the dregs are strong enough to leave you quietly drunk on yourself.