I can always tell when I’m dreaming, usually pretty quickly. In this case I was sure because, while I’ve been to that particular market many times, I only go in my waking life when I have a trip planned. It’s the kind of market where tourists go to have a few afternoon micheladas and buy some souvenirs to take back home – you can spend 1000 pesos and delight your aunt with a hand-woven tapestry or spend 200 and get her a reasonable factory-made facsimile that will probably mean the same to her anyway. Since I moved to Mexico, I’ve stopped by once or twice a year before flying home to load up a suitcase with gifts to pay my way around the couches and spare bedrooms of New York City. I felt an immediate dissonance to be wandering around the labyrinth of tchotchkes in the summer heat with no trips planned until Thanksgiving, so I relaxed and let my dream-self enjoy the walk, happy to know that I was at least getting some REM sleep. I approached the edge of the market, bored and ready to slip around the corner to a nearby plaza for an ice cream, when Alex appeared, covered in cuts and shards of glass.…
Originally published on September 21, 2024 in Black Sheep.