Breaking bottles

For some reason, I'm alone and walking through the parking lot of that gourmet pasta shop and eye doctor on the corner of McLean and Madison. It's just me and my purse, and I think I'm in pajamas. I stake out an unoccupied area of the lot (for what purpose, I have no idea), and notice that there are several people standing around, throwing beer bottles and delighting as they shatter on the asphalt.

One woman engaging in this apparently sanctioned activity sees me, and I laugh with her about how I don't want her to start chucking those things at me. She has no problem with that. Which is why it surprises me when some other dude at the far end of the lot starts chucking bottles just over my head, lobbed high at first, so they'll miss me, but later thrown just past my fucking face.

And then another dude starts throwing bottles toward me. A few near-misses later, and I'm abandoning my purse and taking off across the street, admonishing these assholes for having their fun a little closer to my skull than I'd normally prefer. I realize with a sinking feeling that my purse has all my earthly belongings in it, and I'm leaving it there in the lot. The asshole dudes are descending upon it, and one other dude is coming straight for me. So this is what it must feel like to know things are going to end badly, I think. I reach my purse and wonder why I didn't just sit in my car — which is apparently there — to avoid the bottles. One dude puts his hands on my and another grabs at my purse. I try to yank it away.

I notice, before I come to, that a soundtrack of gangster rap had been swelling in the background as the conflict got more and more heated. I think to myself, Do my dreams always have music?

I honestly can't say.