By John Leatherman
“Good morning, Centerville! It’s Saturday, March 31st!”
I leapt from bed, staring wide-eyed at the nightstand clock radio. “Again?”
Rushing around my apartment, I confirmed the deejay was not pulling an April Fools’ prank. My journal ended March 30. I needed to dust and vacuum—again. And those soggy brown bananas I’d escorted to the dumpster with the rest of my trash? Back in the fruit bowl, stinking up the kitchen.
I’d been through this time loop enough already for this exercise to become routine. But this time should have been different. Yesterday—if that concept still made sense—was the seventh time I’d lived this day. A week’s worth of Saturdays. Why wasn’t it Sunday now?
Then again, why would an inexplicable time loop conform to something so arbitrary as calendar weeks?
There were worse days to be stuck in. Today would be a refreshingly mild, calm spring day—not to mention a weekend. I might welcome a rerun of it if not for…
Right on cue at 8:04, my phone buzzed with a cricket chirp—Peter’s text tone.
Good morning, Julia! Are we still on for tonight?
I sent the first suggested response. Sure.
Sure, I could make an excuse to back out, but that would involve lying. When April 1 arrived—as I believed it eventually would—Peter needed to remember I’d been honest with him.
I sent a follow-up. But we could meet earlier. How about lunch? Had breakfast yet?
Peter gave a quick reply. Sorry, got stuff to do. Let’s meet tonight like we planned.
Groan. Eight hours to waste. I planned to spend most of them at the county fair again. Despite all the same exhibits and stalls, the Retro Rockets and Sonic Screamer remained legit thrills every time—and I knew when to avoid the queues.
Just as I’d done seven times before, I met Peter at Fresco’s Cafe at 7:30 that night. The hostess led us to Peter’s requested table—a two-seater on the patio, parallel to the street. The chair on the right faced an electronic billboard cycling through several ads at twenty-second intervals.
I darted into the left chair.
As the hostess left, Peter winced. “Oh, you’re sitting… there?”
I nodded. “Yes, I like the, uh, view.” Pointing past the right chair, I murmured, “And the couple at the next table, on that side, they look like smokers.”
Peter eyed the empty right chair and the innocent couple I’d just accused.
I motioned toward the restaurant. “Of course, we could just ask for a table inside.”
“Uh, no. No!” Peter practically dived into the right chair. “This will be fine.” He glanced over his shoulder, then grinned uneasily. “I ain’t afraid o’ no smoke.”
I smiled. “Thanks so much. You’re a good friend.” Okay, time to redirect. “You know, a lot of people might see us together like this and think we were dating. Isn’t that funny?”
Peter smirked. “Uh, yeah, funny. But the funny thing about funny things is—”
I raised my volume. “Sure, the thought’s crossed my mind. But I’m just not in a dating place right now. I think I still have feelings for Brad.”
Peter jerked back. “What?”
“I don’t expect you to understand, especially after I asked you to help me break up with him. But I need you to be a good friend and support me while I work through my—” Scrutinizing the reflection in Peter’s glasses, I choked. “Wait a minute.”
I started to turn my head.
Peter grabbed my arm. “No, Julia, don’t look back!”
I whipped around toward the billboard. Precisely at 7:36, the image had changed from a Mold Masters ad to the message Peter had paid $600 to display for three minutes: MARRY ME, JULIA.
Only it was different the last seven times.
“There’s a comma.”
Peter wrung his hands. “Sorry?”
I stood and pointed. “It says marry me, comma, Julia.”
Peter looked down and crumpled his napkin. “Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?”
Sitting, I reached across and tipped his head up toward me. “Maybe because when you planned this proposal a week ago, you forgot to proofread?” I clutched his chin. “And you spent six repetitions of this day trying to figure out how to fix it?”
Peter sighed. “I finally found the right person to contact at Metro Marquee. They’re hard to reach on Saturdays.”
I pounded the table with both fists. “You knew! All along, you knew this day was repeating.”
“To be fair, I thought the first time was a bad dream. Then I thought maybe God was giving me another chance at the perfect proposal.” His head fell limp.
“Knowing the Brad factor, you made me reject you seven times. Do you have any idea how awful that feels?”
Peter slumped down. “Try being the one rejected.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Why? Rejection keeps bringing us back here. You haven’t tried not rejecting me.”
I frowned. “Hold on, you’re suggesting time is looping because I turn you down?”
Peter pulled the ring box out of his lapel. “Just… tell me you’ll think about it. If Sunday comes, you can say no. But… at least I’ll know you gave me a chance.”
“You’re crazy.”
Peter sighed. “If I’m wrong, and tomorrow’s still today, this won’t matter. Either way, I’ll never ask you to come here again.”
I buried my face in my palms and groaned. None of this made any sense, least of all a reality-bending time loop known only to me and Peter.
Holding out my left hand, I murmured, “Gimme the dang ring.”
“Good morning, Centerville! It’s Saturday, March 31st!”
I sat upright in bed. “Again. Thought so.”
I threw back the covers and stumbled around my apartment. Dust, rotting bananas, full wastebaskets—yup, everything was exactly as I remembered.
Except for my phone. A text from Peter had arrived half an hour ago:
You win, Julia. Good luck with Brad.
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I always enjoy your stories, John! Great twist, and what a horrendous day to keep repeating!
Glad you enjoyed it!
Some people!
Poor Peter!!