I am in a room and some people are getting ready for a party. I walk around the pillar in the room, like prancing. Then I see a man burn his hand in steam at the sink and I go to him and say, "It might help if you put butter on it." I open the refrigerator door and pull out a stick of butter and rub it on his injured hand, which is a dark brown. It melts yellow on him and I get too much on. I apologize. Then I want to write down the dream I had before I forget it. I have two half finished dreams to write. I am using a quill-like pen and dip it in a chocolate-like ink. I have trouble getting the ink to form the words right. They bunch up like it has sand in it. Mateo interrupts and asks what I'm doing. I say, "Look, the dream was about a birthday party in Mexico. See, the boys are invited so the parents can look them over. See what they do for a living, how much money they have, the family background. If they approve of them, they let the girl date them. They form two groups, the girls in one group, the boys in another." I then tell Mateo about the quincinero, how the girl is 15 and it's as ornate as a wedding, her dress is. Mateo gets bored; he's heard this story before. I tell him about how Hector wasn't very rich, but his Uncle, the police chief, was. I remember the opulent dinner party we witnessed and shiver, Really rich. "But I've told you all this before," I say to Mateo. I still want to tell the story, but he doesn't want to listen. There is a cat around somewhere.