Nina went to bed like a stone dropped into a lake—fast, smooth, no fuss. One moment she was brushing her teeth with closed eyes, the next, she was already deep in the velvety clutches of sleep. Not the kind of sleep where you wrestle your pillow and wonder about emails. No—this was professional-level sleep. Olympic sleep.
At 4:03 AM, her bladder had different ideas.
She rose like a zombie called to duty, walked to the bathroom with the grace of a stunned giraffe, flushed with the volume of a small jet engine, and returned to bed before her brain could fully reboot. The moment her head touched the pillow again, it was as if someone clicked “Resume” on the dream menu.
And now—here we are.
In the kitchen. Nina’s kitchen, sort of. The details are blurry, like someone tried to draw her actual kitchen from memory but gave up halfway and added a few floating teacups for flair. The window is wide open, and the air smells like lemons and old rain.
She’s not alone.
A monkey—yes, a real one, not a metaphor or hallucination—is standing on the counter. Small, brown, with bright eyes and a chef’s hat made of folded napkins. He’s whisking something in a bowl with more focus than Nina’s ever mustered for anything before 9 AM.
“Morning,” she says, because dream logic doesn’t require introductions.
The monkey nods, hands her a wooden spoon, and gestures to a bubbling pot. They get to work.
Together, they chop, stir, and sauté. The monkey flips pancakes with a spatula twice his size. Nina handles something suspiciously glowing in a skillet. There’s music playing—a kind of jazz made entirely of kettle sounds and spoons tapping china. The monkey dances. Nina sways.
They cook like old friends at a magical brunch.
Eventually, the table is set: two plates, two cups, a teapot shaped like a whale, and something that looks like pineapple toast but tastes like nostalgia and joy and a little bit of cinnamon. Just as she sets down the final dish and turns to tell the monkey it’s ready—
He’s gone.
Vanished. No poof, no dramatic exit. Just an empty space where once was monkey. She looks under the table. Checks the curtains. Peeks in the pantry.
Nothing.
Nina sighs. The table looks strangely larger with only one person at it.
Still, she eats. And wow—the food is divine. If happiness had a flavor, this is it. She finishes the last bite and leans back, full in that perfect, almost ridiculous way dreams allow.
She wonders: Will the monkey come back?
No one answers. But in the breeze from the open window, there’s a tiny sound—like a giggle wrapped in leaves.
Maybe.
