Simon could see a woman in the distance, her silhouette standing out among the figures dancing joyfully in the club.
Her long red hair swayed from side to side in rhythm with her body, in sync with the crowd around her.
Every movement she made was closely followed by dozens of eyes, all captivated by the freedom and grace with which she moved.
Simon approached the bar, pensive. He knew he was inside a dream, the same dream as always.
An unfamiliar nightclub, filled with faces he had never seen before.
He asked the bartender for the most expensive drink they had—after all, in a dream, you didn't have to pay.
They served him a signature cocktail with a complicated name he forgot instantly, but when he tasted it, he coughed in disgust.
"This shit tastes like beer…" he whispered, disappointed.
"If you don't like it, you can always go to a real club, you know?"
At his side appeared the now-sweaty figure of the redhead, her hair falling in damp strands over her shoulders.
She wore a simple black dress, but perfectly fitted, as if it had been made for her.
'Do you always look this good?' Simon thought with a half-smile, watching her.
For some reason, she too seemed aware that it was all a dream. They had been meeting there, night after night, for months.
"We've been over this. I don't have the money for a place like this in real life," Simon reproached, taking another sip of his cheap-beer-flavored drink.
"That's the problem? Money?" the girl asked in a playful tone, resting a finger on Simon's chest as she leaned closer, invading his space.
Simon looked away, uncomfortable, losing himself in the reflection of the club's lights in his glass.
At that moment, he noticed a faint hum, almost imperceptible, starting to creep in through the music.
"Yeah, that's always been the problem," he replied, with a hint of bitterness.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the redhead smile, but it wasn't an ordinary smile. Her lips curled exaggeratedly, and her eyes held a strange glint, as if she knew something he didn't.
"I can help you with that," she whispered, her voice echoing more inside his head than in the air.
Before Simon could respond, the hum became deafening, and the club dissolved into a blur of lights.
<><><>
Simon woke with a start, sitting up in bed, his heart racing.
'That dream again,' he thought, uneasy.
Moving through his small apartment, he realized what had woken him: his phone was buzzing insistently on the nightstand.
He stifled a yawn and answered, still dazed.
"Simon? You ready?" Katherine's voice, his coworker, sounded urgent.
"Ready for what?" Simon asked, rubbing his eyes, still caught in the echo of the redhead.
"Don't mess around! I need you here in 15 minutes! The owner's coming today, and if you're not here when she arrives, she'll fire you, you idiot!"
Simon's eyes widened. He'd been so lost in his dreams he hadn't even noticed the time.
"No way! I'll be there in 30! Stall her, please."
"What? How am I supposed to—?" But Simon hung up before Katherine could finish.
He rushed through the apartment, getting ready as fast as he could while muttering curses.
"These damn dreams… I can't wake up on time since they started. What's wrong with me?"
He took an ice-cold shower, ignoring the chill that prickled his skin, as if he could wash away the confusion haunting him.
He stuffed a pack of instant noodles into his backpack for breakfast and left with his bike.
He pedaled as fast as he could, running red lights and dodging cars amid the shouts of drivers and pedestrians.
His bike, old but reliable, held up under the frantic pace. He'd used it in competitions years ago, and it still hadn't failed him.
He reached the café, braking hard, nearly running over Katherine, who was waiting at the entrance.
Despite the chaos, she looked at him with a mix of pity and frustration, lighting a cigarette.
"You're late, Simon," she said, pointing to the entrance with her thumb. "She's waiting inside."
Simon noticed the sadness in Katherine's eyes as she lowered her gaze, hiding her face behind her wavy brown hair.
"Got it. Wish me luck," he replied, sighing before walking in.
Inside, a woman in her forties sat at the back table, reviewing data on her laptop, typing furiously.
Simon approached slowly, bracing for the worst.
"Good morning, Jenny. Sorry for being late," he said, trying to sound casual.
Simon hoped, even for a moment, that she'd let it slide, that she'd give him another chance.
"This is the tenth time you've been late in a month," Jenny replied without looking up. "Today it was twenty minutes, but there've been days when you're two hours late, Simon."
Simon swallowed hard. He wanted to promise it wouldn't happen again, but even he wasn't sure he could keep that promise.
"I'm really sorry. I'll make it up," he said, his voice subdued.
It was Simon's last attempt to hold onto his only source of income.
Jenny stopped typing and looked at him directly through her glasses, with a mix of irritation and weariness.
"No need. Pack your things. You're fired."
Simon felt a knot in his stomach. Without this job, he'd lose not only his apartment but also his university classes. Everything he'd fought for was crumbling.
"Jenny, please, you know how much I need this," he pleaded, but she didn't budge.
"I've given you plenty of chances, Simon. Leave now. You can pick up your last paycheck tomorrow."
With nothing more to say, Simon nodded, defeated.
As he gathered his things, he felt a weight in his backpack.
Reaching in, among the noodles and his keys, his fingers brushed something cold and metallic: a small black brooch, identical to the one the redhead wore in the dream.
His heart skipped a beat. How had it gotten there?