Dream 2

Pecan Sandies

It's 2 o'clock in the morning. The only light comes from distant, intermittent street lamps. It has rained all night and the darkness makes the street look like wet ink. We walk up the street, a residential area, in search of a convenience store in which to buy donuts. He and I. The conversation is light, usually reguarding the rediculous intent that has us out at this hour. We find a convenience store, a beacon of light in the dark and go in. I find it odd that the shelving in this location is taller than me, but set about finding the donuts. My task is hampered because nothing is in marked packaging. Every item on every shelf is in a plain, white paper bag, each requiring inspection to determine the contents. We wander up and down shelves, peering into bag after bag until he declares, "pecan sandies!"
He keeps saying it over, and over as he removes the bag from the shelf.
"Pecan sandies, pecan sandies."
He pronounces pecan in that non- regional way, excentuating the long e.
"Peeeecan sandies."
Dragging out the first sylable for effect.
He pays, shoves a whole cookie in his mouth, smiles to reveal the partially chewed contents, and we walk out of the store and back into the night.