The happy place

I dreamed that we were living in my grandmother’s house, the one I grew up in.

We’d inherited her dog, it was translucent and blue, with surface like that of a peeled grape.

It was OK to eat this dog, it didn’t harm it.

There were pieces falling off it looking like gelatinous candy, which tasted very synthetic and bad, like of something chemical or the rind of an orange.

And there was someone smoking in the TV room

And the walls were nicotine yellow from the smoke

And I didn’t want my wife to find about the smoker, because it was some relative of mine: an old hag.

But then I woke up