The Date (dream)

Emerging from grey gates into a rainy phantasagorical Edinburgh full of drips and ripped billboard posters and afternoon.
I went through grey gates into an anxious colourful crowd. Some moustached and dark businessmen rushed by. Some teens in bright bi-coloured sports clothes, shellsuits or ski-jackets, brushed me.
Though contrary-wise to the lonely rush of the crowd, and their angsty eyes seeking and suspecting me, as if to say "loner weirdo and has no business in the city, up to no good standing on streetcorners." I felt good and proud because i was waiting for my date, and therefore grinned in an old-fashioned way, reproaching their blank glances.
It was in a perfect grey paranoiac Edinburgh, full of January dankness and sexual shadows. I wasn't sure whether my date would show up, and was scared and pleased, stood rigidly with a moritified grin.
But when the girl finally showed up i was happy as if i was justified to the swelling crowd of passers-by. Truly i had something to prove and here i was vindicated by girl on my arm.
But the girl who dashed up and seized me by the hand with a surprising earnestness and urgency seemed to have been crying. A big goth girl with a grey doll face and downward-looking eyes, neat mascara smear down cheeks. She had a heavy frame and dark clothes, and was sturdily-shinned, but with a curiously blank and panicky face, as if frozen into a china doll expression by some trauma. Her hair was a great ragged mass of dark dreadlocks as if woven from wool.
She pulled me with her gasping as if in an unaccountable rush to get away. Did not explain or justify this but merely pulled feebly at my hand. We walked off over wastelands of ruined cement into more purple horizons of cities, a memoried Oakley or setpiece Glasgow of tenements. We walked over a great expanse of cracked and dirtied ice, strewn as if with old garbage and shattered breezeblocks.
Treacherous industrial ice puddles lay underfoot. And halfway across the girl went right under the thin ice which cracked and gave way beneath her. Bobbing at the top of the ice-hole, among waste of dirty city ice, was her great mass of tangled dreadlock, thick and strong, which i grasped with my hand in an attempt to draw her full weight up from the water.
But she drowned. I reacted to this news almost in the third person, as something seen in an arcane New York movie or read in an old newspaper headline. It seemed a simple and dispassionate death.