The Reoccurring Dream

Have you ever gotten the feeling you’ve been somewhere before? Even though you’re fairly certain you haven’t been? No? Just me? Let me clarify. 

It started for the first time in the tenth grade. I can still remember the day like it was yesterday. I had woken up that morning, full of energy from a great nights sleep. Little did I know, it was the last great sleep I was going to have for a very long time. 

I remember the delicious smell of pancakes, dripping with a sticky syrup that made my stomach grumble with delight. I remember sipping on my glass of orange juice silently, while absentmindedly browsing through my various social media accounts. I could hear the vague argument between my brother and mother; but that was nothing out of the ordinary. 

The day was normal. When I say normal, I mean it passed by in typical fashion. I went to school, day dreamt through all of my classes. I was always getting caught for doodling instead of paying attention. How did I always get caught? Today was no exception; I ended up spending my lunch break in detention. 

After school I took the bus, sitting off to the side, my headphones in playing music at a very low volume. I wasn’t antisocial by any means, but I also enjoyed my alone time. 

And then it happened. Even as I got myself ready for bed that evening, something felt off. I went through my nightly routine as normal. Brushed my teeth, had my shower, brushed and dried my hair, and spent an hour scrolling aimlessly through pointless seven second videos on my cellphone before turning off the light and closing my eyes, waiting for sleep to overtake me. Only tonight, it didn’t. 

I was restless. I tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position. I must have laid for hours, staring at the ceiling, opening and closing my eyes, as if doing so would will myself to fall into a deep slumber. 

But it didn’t work. The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a coffee shop. It wasn’t one I had ever seen, so I only assumed it was one that had been concocted by my wild and vivid imagination. It sat alone, next to an abandoned parking lot and an organic food market. 

Cup of Joe, it was called. I remember laughing at their lame attempt at humour. The first night I didn’t go in the coffee shop, however; I simply stood outside, taking in the surroundings, trying to figure out why I was seeing this particular building. 

My alarm finally blared after what felt like hours of staring at this small coffee shop. I felt exhausted; I could almost feel the bags under my eyes. I didn’t realize my sleepless nights would only continue. 

I saw the building every night in my dreams, for the next five years. Though there were some nights that felt better than others, in general I hadn’t had a proper nights sleep in five years, each night dreaming of the same coffee shop, and each time exploring more. 

I remember the first dream where I walked inside. I was surprised at how homey it felt. There were no people there the first time; they came after. It was quaint and small, but it felt like home. Paintings adorned the light brown walls, most of them looking like they had been hand painted by local artists. At the counter there was no employee, in no dream did one ever appear. 

I didn’t ever tell anybody about this coffee shop. For five years, I kept it to myself. When people would ask why I looked tired and drained, I’d always just blame it on the stresses of college life; nobody thought twice. 

I always wondered if I should have mentioned it to anyone, but there was always something that held me back from doing this. 

That brings us back to now. Have you ever felt like you’ve been somewhere before? Even though you’re certain you’ve never been there before? That’s what was happening now. 

When I first walked by the abandoned parking lot I had a sense of familiarity. When I passed that and stood in front of Cup of Joe, I had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I pinched myself, to ensure this was indeed real. 

It was a part of town I had never been before. My mother had seen an ad online for a dress she wanted to wear to my brother’s wedding, and wanted me to pick it up for her. I begrudgingly agreed, and now I was wondering if it was a good idea. 

I had to go inside. I mean, I had to, right? This place- this coffee shop- had been the subject of my dreams for five years. There had to be a reason for this, right? Maybe I was going to find out. 

Hovering at the entrance, I became enthralled with the signage on the front door. Did I really want to do this? Was this a sign? If I went in, would the dreams stop? It had become so familiar it was almost comfortable; minus the lack of great sleep, of course. 

Finally, I shuffled my feet through the front door, greeted by the familiar ding of the bell that signalled a new customer entering the establishment. 

Everything was the same as it was in my dream. The paintings that were scattered on the walls were hand painted, the names of the local artists proudly on display. 

This time, like a few times in my dreams, there were a few customers, drinking their beverages, all occupied in conversation. It was to my surprise that I had seen all of these people before, yet knew none of them. 

I must have looked lost, confused, and fascinated all at once. I couldn’t believe the coffee shop was real. I couldn’t believe that what I had dreamt about for so long, was real. 

Walking up to the counter, I wondered if this time, I would see an employee; it was the only thing I had never seen in all of my years of having the dream. 

There was nobody in line, so I was able to walk right up. In addition to serving coffee, the array of baked goods causing me to salivate, and my stomach to grumble. They looked just like they had in my dream. The delicious cookies, both chocolate chip and peanut butter. Loaf breads, lemon and banana. And lastly, the delicious slice of chocolate cake that sat alone, clearly being a favourite of the patrons of the coffee shop. After all, who didn’t love a slice of chocolate cake with their coffee?

When I stopped drooling over the chocolate cake, I looked up and was startled to see an employee standing behind the counter. 

He was tall. His name tag reading “Joe”. Was he the owner? He looked young; not much older than I; perhaps early to late twenties? His brown hair was swept to the side, his blue eyes piercing. 

“Becca” he surprised me by knowing my name. “I’ve been waiting five years for you to show up.”