“Hey,” I told Paul, in my usual articulate morning way. “In my dream last night?” Paul grunted and fumbled for his glasses.
“Yeah?”
“I heard you saying I was a terrible writer.” Paul peered at me, hair crazy like a mad scientist, gray-blue eyes wide with concern.
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” he observed, voice scratchy with sleep.
“It’s okay, though,” I told him. “In my dream, I heard you say that, and sure – my feelings were hurt – but I realized I could differentiate between how you felt about my writing and how you felt about me.”
“Well,” Paul said, sounding surprised. “That’s good. Right?”
“Sure,” I nodded, “I mean… it’s great that my dream self is so much more advanced than I am.”
Paul laughed.

He thought I was kidding.