Goosebumps

I touched your naked arm in the cold of the night and read the Braille of your goose bumps as you slept. As I gently moved my hand across your arm a vivid picture of your dream was painted.
You are on your way to the Job centre in Walthamstow, it’s overcast and planted stars sit nestled in the under belly of the bruised clouds, like currents in scones twinkling in the midday greyness. Diamonds in puffs of concrete. Old-fashioned cars hum along carpeted roads almost silently, as jumbo jets flap their wings overhead. Butterflies with wingspans of a metre swoop down, legs as thick as chopsticks. You approach the job centre to find there is an elderly gentleman standing in front of the revolving door. He is costumed in a lime green top hat and tails; you look down to see your face in each of his shoes, as his pristine white gloves show you the way inside. Classical music fills the air and lead balloons float effortlessly from the desk of each job advisor. A life drawing class is taking place in the corner as a beauty queen hands out jobs in parcels delicately wrapped in tissue paper varying in size and colour. You see me sat talking to a beautiful female advisor, a secretarial porn star. She is rubbing her leg against mine under the table as we talk about the bit in the Full Monty where they start dancing in the dole queue to Hot Stuff by Donna Summer. Suddenly you turn over and put your arm around me, your goose bumps begin to sink; I move away and start fanning your arm with a magazine to try and retrieve to the dream. Only to wake you up. What are you doing you ask? I throw the magazine to the floor and pretend to be asleep.