Last night I dreamed that Mila Kunis and I were hanging out with a few mutual friends, in a building in a woods by a lake which looked as if it might have been a big empty upscale hotel, and figuring out that we liked each other as more than friends. (My social life lately has been spectacular while I've been asleep. While I've been awake it hasn't been as impressive. I haven't actually ever met Mila Kunis.) At first we would sneak away from the others now and then to hug and kiss for a moment. Then we decided to stop hiding it from the others.
Then there was an exchange in the presence of the others -- although nobody seemed to be paying much attention to the two of us -- in which we were both rather emotional, and I did my best to reassure her that I was sincere, and trying neither to manipulate her nor humiliate her, nor was I seeing anyone else. It felt difficult to reassure her, and simultaneously not to appear to belittle her feelings.
Then we had sustained eye contact for a period of more than a few seconds -- remember, I'm autistic, and continuously maintaining eye contact for more than about 1 second at a time does not come naturally to me -- and I was very moved because her eyes were gorgeous, and I hugged her and whispered in her ear that she was gorgeous and she made me very happy. And she whispered: "Is it only my looks?" And I whispered: "No, it's a lot more than that. But to be honest, you're also extremely good-looking, and that's very nice too." After I said that she hugged me tighter.
Then I was living with my brother in a house next to an Interstate exit and entrance. In real life I've never lived in such a location. The landscape was fairly flat, and dusty, and the sun was very bright although the weather outside was cool. The house was small and seemed flimsily-built. There was very little sound insulation, we had to raise our voices slightly to be heard over the roar of vehicles on the highway. Gradually, with the help of more clues, I figured out that the house was somewhere in west Texas. I've never lived in Texas, but I've passed through a few times, and a lot of people I know, relative, friends, acquaintances, live in Texas or have lived there. Although more often in central or east Texas -- from Abilene to Louisiana -- than west Texas. When I figured out where the house was, I remarked to my brother, "I don't have any contacts near here." My brother nodded, but I couldn't tell if my lack of acquaintances unsettled him as it did me.
He and I walked across the road from our house to the local saloon, where we met a group of friendly and hard-drinking guys who clearly were led by a guy who looked somewhat like a younger Hank Williams, Jr, except bigger. He wore a Stetson and sunglasses indoors and out. He spoke with a slight Russian accent. He bought drinks for his buddies and also for me and my brother, although we had just met. He was disappointed that my bother and I weren't drinking faster, but he didn't make a big deal of it. He and I were standing at the bar and laughing about something when suddenly he stopped laughing. He was looking past me to the entrance of the saloon. I turned around and saw one of his crew standing by the entrance and looking very grim.
They all cleared out very quickly. The Hank-lookalike dropped some bills on the bar and apologized that my brother and I couldn't come with them. We heard several pickups outside start up and roar away, spitting gravel.
Shortly after that -- it was still mid-afternoon -- my brother and I were back in our house with a few friends, when someone started banging very hard on the front door. I opened the door and a very angry Texas Ranger barged into the living room, shoving me on the chest and shoulders and yelling for me to tell him where Sergei was. He was clearly convinced that I was only pretending not to know who Sergei was, and pretending not to be Russian. There were now several Rangers in our living room, and one of them barked at the angry one to shut up and go outside. Then he talked to me very calmly. I was wondering whether this was all a good-cop-bad-cop routine, or whether the first guy really was about to flip up because he was so angry. I thought, if this is just a routine, they're good at it, it's a very convincing routine. In any case, after the calm Ranger had spoken with me for a short while, I understood that the big Hank William-lookalike was Sergei, and the Rangers understood that none of us were Russian, and that none of us had seen Sergei before that afternoon in the saloon or had any idea where he and his crew were headed, and that they had barged into the wrong house. The calm cop made the angry one come back inside and apologize to everyone for the mistake. They all left, and none of us back in the house had the slightest idea why they were chasing Sergei.
Then I woke up.