Last night I dreamt I was at a fancy restaurant, waiting for all my friends and family, past and present, dead and alive. I was hoping to get a nice booth to impress everyone, but there was only a small table left.

While I waited, I watched a couple in a booth bicker. The man was old and dignified in a brown suit. The woman looked like a 1960s Hong Kong singer in a flowery chipao with a cool hairdo. Suddenly she crawled across the table and stuck a very thin needle into the man’s throat. Then she ran off into the night.

The man tipped over in the booth, dead. The waitstaff came. So did the paramedics. Probably a heart attack, they said. No, I told them. He was poisoned. Check for an entry wound in his throat. They thanked me for my help, and after they carried away the man's body, I asked if I could have the booth.

I decided not to tell my friends and family what happened because I worried they might think I started drinking again.