Beach house

I dreamed last night about a beach house in Malibu, all wooden floors, floor-to-ceiling windows and white furniture. It wasn’t my house, but I was living there. I was house-watching for a friend.

I put everything in order and was about to leave, when I saw them coming: a rowdy group of about 30 partyers, friends of friends, boisterous and rowdy, walking up the street and looking for a house to play in. And they were heading straight for this one!

I knew that if somehow they got inside, they would be shrieking and spilling and abusing this place for days. I would get absolutely ZERO SLEEP the whole time. As they barreled towards me, I turned off the lights, locked the front door and quickly slipped out of eyesight. If they thought no one was home they’d simply move on to someone else’s house.

Knob turning, pounding, bell ringing. I sat stock-still with my heart beating fast. Just move along, now. Please!

Suddenly a doubt sprang to mind: I hadn’t checked to see if the back door was locked . . . and now a group was moving along the deck, headed right for it! Staying low to remain out of sight, I scurried over and stuck the key in the lock. Too late! Before I could lock it, the door burst open and the whole noisy crew swept in and filled up the place from one corner to the next.

I awoke kicking myself for not having been better prepared, for not having kept better vigilance over my little empire. The back door is how they always get in. All my bad habits.

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