Every month or so Laura and I take the train downtown and visit one of the art museums. The train ride takes about thirty minutes and usually we read our books or watch the scenery go by or chat about what we know of any special exhibitions currently on display. “Someday soon your work will be there too,” I always tell her.

Today, just a few moments after we boarded the train and took our seats, Laura said, “I had a strange dream last night.”

“Tell me,” I said, as I helped her off with her jacket.

“I was in a waiting room. I was the only one there, and it was a very cozy waiting room. The lights were low and the couch was comfortable. It was green, a deep soft green.

“I don’t know what kind of waiting room it was. I mean whether it was for a doctor or dentist or psychologist or what.”

“Psychologist, huh? Do you think you need a psychologist?”

“Probably, but as I said, I don’t know what kind of waiting room it was. It was quiet, like the sound of a deep forest. Hushed. And in fact out the window there was a deep forest. Dark green shade. The occasional twitter of a bird.

“But then I noticed that hanging from the ceiling near the window was a birdcage. Simple but well-made. Ornate in an understated way.”

“Wow, you really noticed that birdcage.”

“Yeah, sometimes that happens in my dreams.”

Laura was quiet for a moment. I had the suspicion that she’d dreamt of the waiting room because just the other day she’d received very bad news about her father. The outlook was not good.

“There were two birds in the cage. Small blue birds. I guess they were bluebirds.” Laura chuckled lightly. “Or love birds.”

“What were they doing? These lovebirds.”

“Nothing,” Laura said. “Nothing at first, anyway. They were just there.

“I also noticed a picture on the wall. A painting. At first I couldn’t make out what it was, because it was mostly in shadow, but I blinked a couple of times, and then I saw. The painting was of a man and a woman. Or a boy and a girl. I’m not sure how old they were. They were standing on a stone floor, and there was a large cylindrical pillar behind them, and they were both naked.”

“Maybe they were statues,” I said, thinking of the museum.

“No, because they were talking. And the girl had the boy’s penis in her hand. Like she was weighing it. It wasn’t fully hard, but it wasn’t fully soft.”

“What was she saying?”

“She was saying, ‘You’re not very big, are you?’ But even as she said it, the boy’s penis was growing.”

“Sexy,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Laura. “It was.”

There was another period of silence. The conductor had punched our tickets. The next two station stops had come and gone.

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“I forgot to tell you something,” Laura said. “On the glass-topped coffee table in front of the couch was a magazine. An art magazine. On the cover was a black and white photo of a naked woman. Just her torso. Her breasts. She had large, beautiful breasts, just the kind you like.”

“I like small breasts,” I protested. “I like all kinds of breasts, but especially yours.”

“The nipples were stunningly erect,” Laura continued, as if I hadn’t said anything, as if my words were meaningless. “You would have loved those nipples.”

“Mmm,” I said.

“Also there was a gun.”

“A gun?”

“Yeah, on the coffee table next to the magazine. It was shiny and dull at once. Heavy looking. Dangerous. Luckily, it was not pointed at me.”

“Luckily,” I said.

“And then the birds started fucking.”

I could picture it, sort of, the birds flittering against each other in their cage.

“And the people in the painting started fucking too. Up against the pillar.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Uh huh. Naturally, I had to touch myself. I couldn’t help it.” Laura bit her lip. She turned to look out the window. We were in the city now. Lining the tracks were abandoned factories with broken windows. “I bet birds get in those broken windows,” Laura said. “I bet there are a lot of dead birds in there.” I could see Laura’s reflection faintly in the tinted window of the train.

“It wasn’t easy,” Laura said. “Touching myself. Because I was wearing a long, pastel-pink dress. I had to pull it up and up and up to get at myself. So many folds of material. It was like a magician pulling endless silk ribbons from his sleeve.

“And just as I got the material all the way up, this guy came in. I was so embarrassed.”

“Was he the guy from the painting?” I asked.

“No. Not that guy. This one was more mature. He was naked. He was erect. Hugely erect. He sat down next to me on the couch. I was so embarrassed. I tried to cover myself, but all that material wouldn’t budge. The guy could see my ... my pussy. And he wasn’t shy about looking. I knew he had a leering look, even though I dared not look at him. I knew he was staring straight at my pussy, and there was nothing I could do about it.”