Kiritoru, so I stepped up to him. “Are you Mr. Kiritoru”, I asked, he replied in a Japanese accent, “No, I am Me, Kiritoru is waiting in the car...��, as he pointed to an idling car in the main driveway. Behind me, almost pushing, he directed me into the back seat, closing the door, he got into the front seat. Driving was a 60’s something Japanese man with a black fedora and expensive dark overcoat. This contrasted with Me, who was more casual in an expensive light brown leather jacket, golf shirt. My arm quickly tires. I put down the book, close my eyes and inhale the chlorinated odors of the swimming pool. My consciousness swims in a bright orange darkness and relaxes to swimming pool sounds: bouncy diving boards, screaming children and swimsuits dripping on the way to towels. Sweaty moisture glazes my chest and drips into folded crevices of skin. I reach for the suntan lotion, but before I open it, footsteps run by and dive into the water, raining a giant splash upon me. I awake and. More

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