Vignette: Conversations with a Drum

We are on a train to Xian— the belly of the country. We are talking of dreams, dreams and broken glass. We stare out the window at the moving picture of white goats sprinkled on top of green hills. She fiddles with the rim of her teacup. She is telling her story. Her eyes widen then fall into their natural slopes. I listen to her, committed. I am in love.
The train stops. Passengers exit. Most are from the standing section. They hold crickets in bone cages and white peppered eggs wrapped in wax paper. A man clutches a roaster with a feathered green neck. To have a seat on the train is a luxury and we know this silently. We are moving again.
“And then what happened?” I ask her. “To what?” she replies. “In the dream, what happens?” I ask. “It ends like most dreams end. In fragments, but it gets clearer each time. Like a subtle click of a microscope.” She holds up her thumb and index finger in a little circle. She leans closer. Her breath tickles my forearm. “After the dream my sister called to tell me my father died on his couch holding the remote. The television was on, the house was dark.”
A man interrupts us to ask for tickets. He rips the corner of each one with a long yellow fingernail and says something in Mandarin. She replies and they exchange a nod. “Most dreams do not end that way,” I say. “Of course they do,” she says.