The old armchair, a relic from a bygone era, cradled him like a well-worn glove. Bless their breezy souls. Balconies were his sanctum, a stage for twilight dramas where the Arabian Sea played the leading role. Tonight, the script called for a chilled beer, a gentle breeze, and the hypnotic rhythm of the waves.
But the stage directions went awry. Half-finished beer lay forgotten as slumber, a mischievous stagehand, crept in. And then, the dreams began.
Whoever he was, this dream deliverer had a peculiar sense of humour. Forget existential angst or prophetic visions; this guy specialises in Dream Princesses. Beautiful, ethereal creatures, each more breathtaking than the last. “Where,” grumbled the old man, “are the relatable princesses? The ones who snore, burn toast, and argue over the remote?”
His musings were interrupted by a chorus of indignant voices. “What about us?” they cried. “What about our Prince Charming?”
The older man, ever the charmer, chuckled. “Ladies,” he declared, “I’m at your service! Though,” he added with a wink, “castles are out of the question, and stud bull services…well, let’s just say I’m retired from that particular breed of entertainment.”
The commotion, however, was cut short. A shrill voice, unmistakable in its authority, sliced through the air. “Dinner!”
The dream, startled, scrambled for the exit. “Uncivil!” muttered the old man, “Not even a thank you!” He chuckled, picturing the poor dream fleeing for its life. “Good thing,” he mused, “my wife doesn’t believe in dreams. Especially the ones with…enthusiastic older gentlemen and…demanding female audiences.”
He sighed contentedly, the aroma of his wife’s cooking finally breaking through the haze of the dream. Life, he concluded, might not be a fairy tale, but it certainly had its brand of unexpected entertainment.
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