Who the Fuck is Greg?

I hear it before I feel it. That familiar, skull-rattling buzz — a low, invasive vibration that starts somewhere behind my eyes and drills its way outwards. The woodpecker is back, not a polite tap-tap-tap — a full demolition crew tearing through my skull. “Oh, brilliant,” I mutter. “You again.” My body begins to tremble — violently, insistently — like something trying to shake me loose from inside out. A low electrical hum building beneath my skin, uninvited yet undeniable. It’s happening. Time to take flight. The astral plane awaits… apparently. “Right,” I say aloud, because narrating my own disembodiment feels appropriate. “Where are we off to then?” Silence. No grand plan. No intention. No whispered mission from the universe. Just… vibes. “Fantastic,” I sigh. “Freelancing it is.” And then — I lift. Up, up, up — slow at first. Coaxed rather than pulled. A helium balloon that’s finally had enough of being tied down. I don’t look back. Not tonight. Not at the human burrito of flesh, snugly swaddling me into spurning submission. “Nope,” I say, eyes forward. “We’re not doing that whole panic-and-snap-back routine tonight.” So I ascend. Higher. Further. Into… Absolute bloody darkness. “I can’t see jack shit,” I complain. It’s always like this at first — like someone’s flicked the universe off at the mains. No dimmer switch. No easing in. Just… void. I clear my throat, remembering protocol. “Clear vision,” I demand. A beat. “Please.” Immediately — the world clicks on. “Oh,” I grin. “Lovely. Thank you.” The darkness peels back like a reluctant curtain, revealing just enough to spark my curiosity. I stretch out my arms, feeling the strange, weightless rush of movement ripple through me. “Take me beyond,” I say. A pause. Somewhere, I can practically feel a cosmic receptionist pinching the bridge of their nose. “Beyond what, exactly?” they mutter, exasperated. But rules are rules. Requests are requests. So — off I go. The darkness thins. And then — I stop. Suspended. Still. Floating in a vast, silent expanse… Surrounded by Earths. Thousands of them. Hanging in space like delicate glass baubles on some celestial Christmas tree. Each one spinning. Each one identical. Each one… mine. “Oh,” I breathe. “Well that’s… deeply unsettling.” I reach out — but they hang just beyond my fingertips. Typical. I hover for a moment, weighing entire lives like I'm browsing a rail of discounted jumpers, then shrug. “Alright,” I decide. “Eeny, meeny, miney — that one.” And just like that — The strings are cut. I drop. Freefall. Fast. Faster. Wind screaming past me, tearing at my skin, adrenaline blooming sharp and electric in my chest. “Bit aggressive!” I shout. And then — THUD. I land. Feet first. Solid ground. I look up. “Oh, for f—” Work. I’m at work. “You are a cruel universe,” I mutter. The depot is buzzing. A crowd gathered. Tension thick enough to chew. That pre-explosion energy that prickles up your neck before everything goes to shit. A woman — a manager, apparently — stands at the front, sweating confidence she absolutely does not possess. “So,” she says, voice wavering, “the lapsed rounds you’ve all been covering for the past eight months—” Oh no. “—weren’t actually meant to begin until next year.” Silence. Then — Chaos. “What do you mean?!” “You’re taking the piss!” “We’ve been grafting for nothing?!” The room erupts. Anger crackles like lightning. People shouting, pushing — something crashes to the floor. A trolley goes flying. Someone else nearly follows. The manager attempts control. Fails spectacularly. I take one look around and think — “Nope.” “I would like to leave this reality immediately, please.” And — bless its stardust socks — the universe listens. I blink. And I’m standing in a charity shop. Of course I am. “Predictable,” I mutter, brushing imaginary dust off my astral self. The place smells like old fabric and forgotten lives. The carpet is worn in that I’ve-seen-things-and-remember-them-all sort of way. Shelves sag under the weight of clutter — ornaments, books, chipped mugs with deeply questionable slogans. And the eyes. God — the porcelain figures. All watching. All judging. “Don’t,” I whisper to one particularly sinister doll. “You don’t know me.” Then I see it. A wooden ship. Beautiful. Intricate. Care poured into every inch. “Shane built that.” I turn. A woman behind the counter smiles knowingly. “Did he?” I say, stepping closer. And then — A dog barrels in. Golden. Fluffy. Pure chaos on four legs. “Mabel,” I say instantly. Which means — “Shane?” He appears like he’s been summoned by the thought itself. But he’s not right. Not the easy, warm Shane I know. This one is… frayed. Edges undone. Eyes tired in a way that suggests sleep isn’t the issue. “Did you build this?” I ask gently. He stiffens. “Don’t touch it!” he snaps. “It’ll fall apart.” I freeze. And now I see it — the tiny flaws, the fragile joins, the quiet desperation holding it together. “Oh… right,” I say softly. He clutches a carrier bag. It clinks — a brittle chime that lands heavier than it should. Something in me recognises it. Secrets. Sadness. Shame, trying not to be heard. “Party later?” I try. He lets out a hollow laugh. “Party for one.” Ah. That kind of night. “That sounds… bleak.” “Yeah,” he shrugs. “Well.” A pause. Then, before I can overthink it — “Do you want a hug?” He doesn’t answer. He just collapses into me. Full weight. Full grief. Sobbing into my shoulder like something inside him has finally given up holding itself together. I pat his back, awkward but committed. “All will be well,” I say. A line borrowed from people who sound more certain than they feel. He pulls away suddenly. “Will you look after her?” he asks. He hooks the lead through my hand, without me so much as muttering, “I’ve got shit to do,” and leaves. “hmm,” I sigh, looking down at the dog. “Not ideal.” Left to look after an astral dog. Brilliant. Add it to the list of things I was not prepared for this evening. Do they even need feeding? What do they eat? Energy? Vibes? Lost hopes? I crouch down and stroke her head. “It’s alright, Mabel,” I murmur, “Daddy will be back.” Though, if I’m honest… I’m not entirely convinced he will. I check my phone. “I’ll just text my husband—” But things go… a bit screwy. Proper glitch-in-the-matrix screwy. My fingers don’t feel like mine. They move — traitorous little bastards — and before I can stop them, I’ve typed. Greg. Nothing else. No context. No follow-up. Just… Greg. I stare at the screen. “…Who the hell is Greg?” Two blue ticks. Read. No reply. “Oh, this is how marriages end,” I whisper. Mabel whines, tugging the lead. “Yeah, yeah. Come on then, girl.” We walk beneath arching trees, sunlight filtering through in soft, golden streaks, warming my face. It’s… peaceful. Suspiciously so. And then it hits me. “Wait.” I stop. “Shit… aren’t I lucid?” Mabel looks up. I look around, like I've just caught myself in the act. “I’ve fallen for it again,” I say to her. “Just gone along with the script. Fully committed to nonsense.” And that’s when I hear it. A whisper curls through the trees. “Let’s have some fun…” I smirk. “Go on,” the voice teases. “Get imaginative.” There’s the menace I know only too well. “Naughty Amanda,” I murmur. “Conjure up a sexy man.” A beat. “… Not Greg.” I snort. “Well. It’d be rude not to.” So I do. I conjure up someone entirely made up — no face I recognise, no history, no complications — just pure, tailored fantasy. Suddenly — I’m somewhere tropical. Heat. Light. Air thick enough to drink. I’m stretched out on a sun lounger beside a luminescent pool, skin warm, body loose. “Bit more like it,” I sigh. “Sure would be nice to have some company.” A thought forms. And he arrives. Right between my legs. He wastes no time. The lounger squeaks beneath me. I squeal even louder. Subtlety had scuttled off to take a cold shower. Mabel — poor, innocent Mabel — glances up every now and then, head tilting slightly, as it to say: what in the ever-loving fuck is happening here? Meanwhile, in another layer of reality… I seem to be staging a full exorcism in my own bed. My body thrashing. Flailing. Sheets tangled. “God. I hope I don't wake Mat,” I think vaguely. And then — Release. Sweet, glorious, all-consuming release. I collapse back on the sunlounger, boneless, out of breath, completely satisfied. “Well,” I whisper, eyes half-closed. “That was… exceptional.” I don’t even know who that was, but they deserve a glowing review. Five stars. Excellent hospitality. Would highly recommend. And then— It all comes to a head — pun very much intended. My eyes snap open. Darkness. No pool. No sun. No Mabel. No mystery man. Just — My husband, half-asleep, attempting what I can only describe as a semi-comtose dry hump. “…You alright?” he mumbles, not fully conscious, still vaguely… committed to the thrusting. I blink at the ceiling. Reality settles like fallen dust. “Yeah,” I say. “I think so.” A pause. He stills, lifts his head slightly. And with enough awareness to be dangerous — “… Who the fuck is Greg?” I lie there in the dark, heart still pulsing with the remnants of everywhere I’ve just been. Worlds within reach. Lives within lives. Choices hanging like baubles I could step into at any moment. And yet… I’m here. Back in this body. The bed. This question. Greg. Of all things. And for a fleeting moment — a quiet, slippery thought slides in… What if this — This room, this bed, this version of him — is just another one I dropped into? Another bauble. Another almost. I don’t say it out loud. I just lie there. Wondering which version of me just woke up — — and whether she ever really left.