In the mirror world on the other side of the factory, the houses are arranged much the same, but there are two little brick renter's cottages where the back lawn should be. This is not my side of the mirror (so to speak), and IRL I always go to the laundromat because there is no dryer in the cellar. Dream rules are in effect, though, so I start dragging clothes down to the basement. By the time I get the other people's clothes clear of the chute, I realize I only have maybe a quarter load of blacks: a pair of pants, a couple of T-shirts and underwear.

An air raid drill was called. It's getting to be dusk, and the laundry is irrelevant now, so I hop on my motorcycle and blaze off to the base. My friends, fellow pilots, meet me en route and we reach the underground base where our Top Gun fighter jets live. We dismount our bikes (Cyclones, in retrospect) and board the Moonraker-surplus electric buggies to complete our journey through the base.

As we scramble, though, my good friend takes me aside, and we step into his home. The air raid, our call to arms, is forgotten as we sprawl on one of the twin beds, drinking home-brewed beer and watching Robotech cartoons. Something about trilithium crystals, and we smooch and pet. His wife discovers us en dishabille, pouts and chastizes him. I am so truly sorry; we had, the three (four?) of us, once discussed a bit of fooling around, and I just assumed she knew, was just lurking around waiting for a good moment to join in. My words soften her mood, I give back her silk pajamas which somehow found their way into my backpack a couple of weeks ago, and he slips away as we console and tease, massage and cuddle. I help her dis her habille as well.

Oddly, somewhere in there I verbally express my concern that I am dreaming, and I wish I could remember the detailed explanation to my friends. The same sort of rare scene played out in a dream a few days ago; I feel like I'm stopping just short of lucid dreaming.