valentin eko's face

sits deep in a soft yellow pillow, when he awakes he thinks for two seconds that he has died, without knowing why he would think or do that—because as much as he's trying he can't breathe well, his lungs, when he breathes in it's hard, like he's taken lumps of sand into his mouth—but what makes sense in this case is to turn your head, find an alternative position where your mouth can take in air, find the air, the oxygen—easy enough but his neck hurt, like he passed out drunk on the pillow, how do you make it through the night in this position? you can't, people can't survive this—so he turns his head, now he takes in some more air, he finds the poster of tina turner on his wall, her hip jutted toward him, her hair—there's a thin smell of coffee, maybe coming from the kitchen, but he should be the only person in the house, well maybe he doesn't know, who knows what happened last night, or even if not just a night—he sits up from his bed, his stomach weighs on him, as if he had eaten a lot recently, but his brain feels fine, no pulsating, well slept, he doesn't drink normally and he doesn't recall drinking—the last thing he remembers was talking to his father about going to wyoming, no real plans set, maybe fishing, or just hiking up some mountains, neither of them knew much about wyoming which was why they were trying to figure it out—he says hi tina, as he does every morning, and he touches the poster and heads to the bathroom and pees—his friend sandy, he had talked to him not long ago either, were they going to go out? did they already go out? he struggles finding these details in his memory as he walks to the kitchen, and yes there's coffee in the pot, half filled, he touches it and it's hot, but—well he talked to his dad he supposed and read some news on his phone, texted sandy to confirm they'd be meeting at his house, and then went to bed, maybe very tired—he makes toast and egg, and pours the old coffee, thinking maybe he set it on automatic brew the night before, he had tried that once before but it didn't work, he woke up to an empty coffee pot the next day, the coffee still dry and a tank full of water—so he didn't know how, he thinks, maybe just tried it again yesterday and figured it out—the kitchen clock shows 7:45 am, he didn't pick up his phone from the nightstand but he doesn't remember seeing it, habitually he picks it up once he awakes but he's thinking it wasn't there, maybe somewhere here in the kitchen, on the couch, could have been watching tv or painting one of his train models, could be sitting near the table—he's sitting at the table now, he starts to eat his toast but looking out the window there's something, no there's nothing, a tree is missing, bushes just peeking at him over the window sill, but otherwise just the neighbor's grass, but no massive willow shadowing the lawn—he looks around again, checking for where he is, all the same kitchen, and there was the same bedroom with tina turner on the wall—he approaches the window, the road goes the wrong way, bumps and potholes in place of the smooth black asphalt, the neighbor's house green instead of cream, 1 floor instead of 2, who the fuck is that massive german shepherd walking across the street, where would that come from? he rushes to the front door of the house, to check more, to get it, what's happening, but he stops because now he thinks he needs to understand his place—he breathes out, just a dream, he's been lifted, the whole house has been lifted, and placed in a different city, town, state or country, or all of the above, the way dreams go, no rules, like the wizard of oz, just wake up and you'll be fine—he thinks, if i go down this rabbit hole there might not be much coming back, as in if this is real or not, more likely just a dream, better to not open the door, who knows who or what are behind it, and it doesn't matter because the assumption is that whatever is behind it isn't real, maybe we just sit at the table for a while, the toast and coffee still are there waiting for him, everything is waiting for him to see, he thinks maybe i'm being seen—so best just to sit and wait it out, enjoy the toast, take in the new view of the new neighbors, the ones in the 1 story green house, which used to be 2 story cream, which he didn't like much anyway, or the people in it, anna and frank ho, every weekend for hours cutting grass, weeding the garden, planting enormous flowers or bushes, fertilizing, watering, and yet never once did they sit outside to barbecue or have a beer, no time to enjoy their lawn, only maybe when anna came home from work in her blue audi, daily at 5:30 pm, when she could catch a view of it, its betterness than the others, a superiority, and maybe for her and him that was enough, just to know as they passed the neighbors' lawns including valentin's, that when they arrived at their lawn they have arrived at a different dimension—and maybe that's where they are, now in the 1 story green house, now with a lawn of weeds—