Cross the river

In my dream I cross the river. In the winter, I guess it’s possible to cross the icy stretch, but now there is nothing but sun and open water. I move northeast, through settings characterized by Munro, farms and spaces on the edge.

At the bar, D blows smoke at the people having a birthday party in the center of the room. We try to think of good films and when we do, both of us talk about them for a few seconds.

“I’ve never been into Scorsese,” he says, “but I respect him.”

Outside it has begun to rain, the temperature dropping to the low thirties. We expect snow. He tells me Detroit would be a good place to shoot a zombie film.

“You have to start with The Usual Suspects, because that film was revolutionary.”

“Fincher is a god,” I reply. “Zodiac? A masterpiece of mood.”

I dream of crossing the river. Not by the bridge Eugenides describes, not by the tunnel, not in any imaginable way. Maybe I fly.