The other woman is there but not there. I am the only body in the room.
I’m looking after a baby boy for a wealthy couple. Their house is gorgeous, full of light. The baby knows where things are, so caring for him is intuitive. I’m putting him to bed, washing his face. He, unlike babies, enjoys it.
I’m walking along the street with my brother as he shows me videos of exactly what we’re doing—only in close up—on Central Park South, under the scaffold of the Plaza Hotel.
I’m working on a project, doing research. I’m across the street from the National College of Art and Design (where I went to college) on Thomas Street, Dublin. It’s not open yet; there are people waiting outside.
Then I’m following a woman I realize I have been following for some time, into the college. We’re brought into an empty dark room just inside the gate to do our computer research. There is a monitor on a plinth at one end of the room. As our eyes adjust, whatever is on the screen begins to slowly, dimly illuminate the room. The room is entirely blue. The plinth is blue, the floor, walls, ceiling, the flagpole and the blue flag hanging, draped in the center of the room. The other woman is there but not there. I am the only body in the room.
I’m in the showcase room with bright lights and lots of people around. Someone comments, “Oh, good, she passed” and I look down the row of projects, like country show showcases, to the project that was mentioned. “She” received a 4, the number and a line of text pasted above the project board. I look up to mine and am relieved that I have received a 5.