An attractive woman, old enough to have an air of sophistication about her but young enough to lack the self-confidence maturity affords, sat at a modern dining room table with a handsome man who consorted with royalty, the likes of Prince William and Prince Harry.
The man had the rugged good looks of Middle Eastern or Asian heritage, rather like Genghis Khan with a good stylist and a tuxedo. This was the second night in row the woman had dined with the man, surrounded by other minor celebs in glittery fashions. The woman knew this would be the last chance to make a good impression on this desirable bachelor.
The dining room was part of the penthouse suite on the top floor of a modern skyscraper in Tokyo. The haute cuisine was served with multiple pieces of china and silverware, and one of the courses included a flash of bright orange sauce, artisticially swirled on the plate.
After dinner, while sipping wine and admiring the twinkling lights of the metropolis as fellow party goers milled about the windowed room, the woman noticed a wall of brown dust squeezing between and through the high-rises across the street.
I was the woman.
Nausea overwhelmed me like a punch to the gut when I realized what first looked like dust was a colossal wave of dirty water: A tsunami was about to crash into the building in which I stood. There was nowhere to run. I braced for impact.
The floor swayed. I was horrified to see buildings all around crumpling like they were assembled with bricks but no plaster. Building after building fell like dominoes in the crowded city.
My building remained standing.
Suddenly, well-dressed maids and maintenance workers were in the room, picking up debris, scrubbing floors, washing windows. I was appalled by their misdirected energy. While the city lay in ruins, the hotel workers were worried their high-profile guests might be inconvenienced.
And then I woke up.