Free Daniel's Dream by Peter Michael Rosenberg

the waiter spoke.
     
    ‘What you want? You want drink maybe?’ His accent was thick yet musical. Daniel nodded. The waiter smiled and pointed to the table. There, lying on the red-chequered tablecloth, was a menu, with bright-red letters printed on shiny white card. Daniel was surprised to see it there; he did not remember seeing a menu on the table previously.
     
    ‘Do you have coffee?’ asked Daniel, picking up the card but unable to make sense of it; he was still a little groggy from his fall, and although his vision was clearer the words on the menu seemed to dance around continually, and would not settle long enough for him to read them. ‘And some water perhaps?’
     
    ‘Yes, yes,’ said the waiter enthusiastically. ‘Water yes, coffee yes; I bring you.’ He turned and headed towards the doorway of the taverna.
     
    Daniel gazed around at the pretty, flower-bedecked patio. The temperature in the shade was just perfect and a slight, mimosa-scented breeze brushed past now and then to freshen the otherwise still air, His head was full of questions, but curiously none of them seemed urgent. His most pressing question - where was everyone? - had been partly answered; the very fact that there was a waiter, busily rushing around to assist visitors in distress meant that Daniel was not alone. And presumably there were others. Somewhere. 
     
    Daniel shifted a little in his seat so that he could see out on to the dirt track and past the pump. He looked out to where the road forked and wondered where the right-hand track led. He thought that on his previous visit he had seen buildings nestling among the foliage, but he could not now see anything of the kind. He looked in the opposite direction, back down the track, but there seemed to be no other houses or buildings of any description.
     
    And yet, he surmised, if this was a restaurant, then surely there would be a town or a village nearby. Daniel sighed. He wondered if he would ever find out about this place.
     
    A moment later the waiter returned with a large white cup full of steaming black coffee, and set it down on the table along with a small stainless-steel jug.
     
    ‘One coffee!’ beamed the waiter.
     
    ‘Thank you,’ replied Daniel.
     
    ‘You welcome. You like maybe baklava?’
     
    ‘No, no, that’s fine.’ He wanted to talk to the waiter, to ask him where this place was, where everybody was, but he didn’t want to appear foolish. He was also fearful that too many logical intrusions - questions included - might break whatever spell had returned him to the taverna. More than anything he hoped he might be able to stay a little longer this time. It was so relaxing, so easy. Perhaps, he thought, this was what he had needed all along; a holiday in the sun.
     
    While he played with these thoughts, the waiter once again disappeared inside, and Daniel was left to sip his coffee alone. The warm brew tasted strong and refreshing; it was dark and fragrant. He looked into the steel jug, dipped his finger into the thick white liquid and tasted it. It was sweet and sickly: condensed milk.
     
    The last time he had tasted condensed milk was in the same circumstances, pouring it into a cup of black coffee while sitting in a remote taverna somewhere in the Cyclades. It had been many years ago now, but the taste of that coffee had never left him. He took a sip from the cup and savoured it. He took great, rather exaggerated pleasure from the idea that something as simple and down-to-earth as a cup of coffee could bring such rich rewards. But was it real? Was any of it real? The branches of the large olive tree swayed gently in the breeze, its roughened boughs contorted into wondrous shapes that held the direct sunlight at bay.
     
    This is a dream, thought Daniel. I’ve been here before, but only in a dream. If I pinch myself, I shall wake up and find myself back in London. If I pinch myself