Ted's Bed

Ted had been rambling in his dreams again. He woke up with leaves in his hair and a great thorn protruding from his big toe.

“How did that not wake me up?” he said as he grasped it between thumb and forefinger and slowly extracted it. A little bubble of blood appeared and blossomed. He turned to the culprit. It looked as though it had come from a rose – it had that shark-fin quality, suggestive of incredible violence. He put it in the ashtray for safety.

How could something as beautiful as a rose have such sharp teeth? He thought as he lowered his lips to his toe. For most men who didn’t practise yoga this would have been an impossible feat, but Ted had remarkably long limbs that lent him the quality of a man on stilts. In his present position he looked like a crumpled spider.

He licked his toe and sat back to roll a cigarette. Where he had been and what homing beacon within had guided him back to the safety of his bed? He had only lived in this flat two months – how could he have known the way home? He licked the cigarette paper in an unconscious gesture and rolled a perfect cigarette without so much as a glance at it. His gaze reached out of the window, as he imagined the brambled path he had taken. What was he looking for? What had beckoned to him in the night, and what had he found? Hsi eyes returned to the thorn, defeated in the ashtray, but still angry.

A pile of clothes by his bed emitted a muffled beeping. He tossed the clothes aside and pulled his phone from the pocket some jeans.

“Mum?”
“Eddie! Is everything ok? … I had a bad dream … you were spinning, at a wheel, like they used to do in fairy tales… it sounds silly, I know, but”
“I’m fine Mum”
“But in the dream -”
“It was just a dream. I’m fine.”
He heard her voice relax, ever so slightly.
“Have you done any work today? You know Paul is coming over in 10 days to collect the Weir piece.”
Ted drew a deep lug on his cigarette.
“He can have it when it’s done and not a minute sooner. I told him not to bother booking his flight, but he wouldn’t listen.”
A swallow swooped down past the window with a twig in its mouth. He’ll be nesting, thought Ted. His mother sighed down the phone.
“Just promise me you’ll have something to show him – I don’t want him thinking you’re cheating him – he’s an old friend you know.”
“I’ve done a lot” he said, furrowing his brow “but to be honest I’ve run out of paint. If you could lend me some cash I’ll get more paint this afternoon in town.”
“Are you going in anyway?”
“Yeah, Gerry’s got some Cohen LPs for me he got dead cheap at a charity shop in Hertfordshire.”
“Oh that’s nice” she beamed. He could hear her smile. She loved his bohemian credentials.
“Listen Mum I’ve gotta go, the day’s getting on”
“You sure everything’s ok?”
“Yeah – fine. Will you put that cash in my account now?”
“Will fifty be enough?”
“That’s plenty,” he lied.
“OK, well come see me soon, won’t you? It’s almost been a month.”
“I’ll come tonight after I’ve seen Gerry.”
“Really?” she said, sounding like a small child.
“Yeah, be there for tea about 7.”
“I’ll make roast beef!” she almost squealed.
“See you Mum” he said and dropped his phone down onto the bed.

He’d sleep in his old room tonight and dream old dreams.