Sandman

The yellowing paper of his employee card read Alexander D. Slape, along with a picture of him, his age, thirty-two, hair, brown and eye color, green/hazel, and weight, one-hundred and eighty two. He showed it to the burly man who was standing in front of the building, and, same as every day, the burly man grunted and nodded, letting him past.
Through large glass double doors was the reception area, a spacious aquamarine room that contained a reception desk, a couple leather chairs and a oaken coffee table that had dated magazines sitting on it. Alexander walked up to the desk, and flashed his identification card.
“Morning, Sandy,” the receptionist said cheerfully, as she did every day.
“Morning, Gloria,” he said back, smiling a tired smile.
“Up late again?” she said, with a genuine look of concern on her face, brow wrinkling up like an inchworm. He nodded in response, and she clicked a button on her phone. “Slape needs a coffee, black,” The phone rang, and after picking it up, she smiled at Alexander as a way of saying goodbye.
Alexander walked to the elevator and pressed the button simply labeled with the letter D. The elevator dinged immediately, and the stainless steel doors slid by with not so much as a squeak. Alexander stepped in and the elevator shot upwards before he even pressed a button.
Stepping out of the elevator, Alexander was greeted by his friend, Jack. They talked for a minute about the weather, and the basketball game last night, and local news, but soon Alexander had to excuse himself, so they separated. The door to his office clicked open at his touch. He sat down in his deep velvet chair behind his deep velvet desk. And he began to wait.
It was eight hours later when he stirred again. Outside, it was dusk. The sun was almost down, still poking out above the horizon, creating an eerie half-light. It was time. Alexander pulled an old bronze key from his pocket, slotting it into a keyhole in his desk. He pulled open a drawer and took out a belt. It was black leather, and hanging by strings were small cloth bags. He put on the belt.
Alexander strode to the wall in the side of his office, staring straight at it. He glanced at his watch, and looked back. On the wall, where there was a door. It definitely hadn’t been there before. He opened it and walked through. Onto the other side.
The other side happened to be a bedroom. There was a nightstand, a clock-radio, and a bed. A man lay on the bed, eyes shut. He was still awake, though. Alexander floated, literally rose up above the bed, and pulled at one of the bags. The top came free, and he plunged his hand into it. When it came out, it was clutching a handful of golden sand. With one movement, he flung the sand across the face of the man in the bed. The sand settled onto his face, and for a second his face crumpled up as if he was going to sneeze, but then it relaxed and he fell into slumber, golden particles winking out one by one. On the far side of the room, another door appeared, and Alexander strode to it and flung it wide, walking to the other side.
The night was long, and he ended up going to over a billion houses during it. At last, instead of a black door appearing after he had spread sand over someone's face, a bright hole appeared. Alexander sighed with relief, and walked through it. On the other side was his house, in his own bedroom. He flopped down on the bed, and taking a handful of the golden sand, spread it across his own face. And he fell asleep.