I had no idea why I was calming down. Tomorrow morning a dream of mine would come true. I almost wrote that tomorrow a dream would come to me, as if I thought myself capable of foreseeing the immediate future. Tomorrow felt overwhelming. The meeting wasn’t so important. I would talk with an author whose books I’d enjoyed reading. We would meet over coffee. Why did I write meeting? I hoped it would be more informal than that. What would be formal about two people talking over coffee? It was hard to admit that this dream would soon come true. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe he would send me an email at the last minute and say he was busy writing and didn’t have time to talk to me about writing. I was anxious again. This dream was so real. I was ready to wake up. But the author hadn’t rejected me yet. My dream of speaking with an author whom I’d enjoyed reading couldn’t come true. He would have no reason to drink coffee with me. As if I’d forgotten, I remembered that we were related somehow and that he was in Seattle for a few nights. And somehow, each of us knew that the other was in psychoanalysis. I might have something to write about afterwards. Or maybe he would. Or maybe both of us would. The dream had to finish first.