Pointing at him (a #dream)

Going through old notes, I found this dream I apparently had, back in 2011:

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'Don't be afraid and just come along. How about we make a deal: if you don't like it, you can just leave.'

The young man allowed himself to be carried away and was admitted through a low hatch in the side of the building via a steep slide that ended at a few old pale green cushions that just did not sufficiently break his fall.

As he slowly stood up and rubbed his aching tailbone, he saw small dining tables all around him, like the round two-person tables in a romantic restaurant. Each table was neatly set with bright white damask, silver cutlery and a red rose in a tall silver glass vase that seemed ready to fall over at any moment. At each table sat a man and a woman, dressed as if they were going to watch the ballet after dinner.

The dozens of tables in the dimly lit basement were so close together that it was a good thing that the traditionally dressed waitress was quite thin. But she still sometimes had to struggle to squeeze between two tables to take an order.

Above his head he heard a cruel female voice say: 'I like the way number six is ​​conditioned but what should we do with him?'

When he looked up he saw the woman pointing at him.