The dream started, as all my dreams do, with a cabaret act. In a dimly lit room filled with faceless beatniks smoking imaginary cigarettes, a woman sat on a high stool in the middle of a small stage. She wore fishnet stockings, a tux jacket, and a bowler.

The woman, the same woman to star in every dream’s cabaret act since my untimely death, was Patti Lupone. At least, I think that’s her name. I know I recognize her face, and that’s the name I’ve stuck to it. Obviously, it’s not really her; that would be madness. This was just a dream after all.

She sang a lilting melody, not nearly bawdy enough for a real cabaret, but her eyes bore the sultry intensity of the style all the same. Her body moved with subtlety and fluidity to the undulating melody. The fishnets always distracted me.

But with a sweeping motion her arm drew my attention to the curtain behind her. My perspective floated forward as the curtain was raised to reveal the actual content of the dream, as was the usual pattern of my dreams.