Dreams in Perfect Metaphor

Last night I saved you from a crocodile. I heard your terrified scream from the living room of someone else's house. One word, "crocodile." I waited for more. Nothing. Running to the bathroom I found a giant lizard--no, a small dinosaur--half way out of the toilet with your leg, gray jeans and all, in its mouth. You did wheelbarrow on your hands. I screamed a silent scream for help, but none came.

I looked up to find your head in its mouth. With my hands, I pulled its teeth apart. You wiggled free. In my voice that didn't work, I told you to get out. I let go of the jaws and ran toward the door, bumping into you. I tried to slam it shut behind us, but the croc got out and started nipping at my legs. By this time he was considerably smaller. More giant lizard, less dinosaur. Only slightly less terrifying.

The whole time, you never said a word. Not a single word. Except that first crocodile scream.