the science of sleep // frerard

2/9

Despite everything, Frank manages to get himself together and out his flat by 8am. He only burns his tongue once on his coffee and even manages to pull out one of his darker work shirts that his tattoos don't show through as clearly.

He resists the urge to write everything about his dream down in minute detail ("sorry I'm late, I had this amazing dream and I needed to write it down" probably won't cut it as an acceptable excuse, especially after yesterday) and settles for scribbling down random key words on the nearest thing to hand, which happens to be the title page in his new book.

Thankfully, he's never been too particular about keeping his books in pristine condition.

The drive to work is uneventful; he gets through three cigarettes and drives on auto pilot as his brain lingers on the dream. He can still remember it all so vividly, from the feel of the leather gloves encasing his hands to the look of fear in Ray's eyes...

"What the fuck??"

The words shoot of Frank's mouth as he pulls up to the car park barrier... which is down. With a massive sign on it saying "CLOSED."

He checks his watch. Nope, on time.

The miserable security guard from yesterday is there again too, grinning.

"You can't tell me the car park's full already!!" Frank cries.

"Car park's closed," the guard says.

"I can see that!! Why?!"

"Refurb work. Didn't you get the email?"

Frank vaguely remembers seeing an email pop up in his inbox yesterday, three minutes before he was due to go home.

Fuck.

Ignoring the temptation to ram the miserable Car Park Goblin's booth, Frank pulls the car gear stick into reverse and speeds off down the road to the main mall car park he used yesterday. As he does, he briefly thinks that it's a shame he doesn't have the chauffer Korse hired here.

The rest of his day goes as normal. He slips into the usual routine of office life, completing his tasks, idly listening the gossip around the office and then discussing with Bob on their cigarette break how bitchy everyone is. After lunch, when he's sure his boss isn't lurking, he opens up the internet and pulls up Google. He hesitates for a second, debating about what to type. Eventually, he settles on Dream meanings, working in an office.

Much to his surprise, there are several results. He clicks on the first one.

"Offices. Places of security and order. Depending on the state of the office in the dream, it could be your subconscious telling you to be more organised. If you find yourself dreaming about your work office, it indicates you cannot seem to leave your work at the office; you are overworked and need to get away – perhaps a holiday is due."

Frank sighs. Figures.

Really, it's no surprise that his dream last night was so fucking boring. If your dreams are meant to be your subconscious dealing with your real life and there's nothing interesting going on there, then how is your made-up world supposed be inspired?

~*~*~

Douchey Art-Boy is back in Starbucks, deeply engrossed in his sketchbook again.

Frank frowns and heads for a table as far away from him as possible. He wasn't going to go for another coffee after work but there was something about the warm lights and the gentle, familiar aroma of coffee wafting out the door that pulled him in before he could question his feet.

Not that he's complaining though. He's got his book in his bag and a change of scenery is always nice.

He settles himself down on the wooden chair and shrugs off his jacket, and as he does, Douchey Art-Boy happens to look up and catch his eye. He grins and nods at Frank, and for one horrible second, Frank thinks he's going to try and talk to him, but instead he goes back to drawing.