At the same two-seater table where I’d fallen in love with him three years ago, Brad pleaded with me over his turkey-tomato wrap. “Julia, I know you broke up with me because I never put your feelings first. That was wrong, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Though relishing his burst of humility, I hesitated.
The seconds ticked by on my cellphone while I waited outside Brad’s apartment. At precisely at 10:38, I rang the doorbell. This time I’d get it right.
Brad poked his head through the jamb, eyes droopy from sleep. “What do you want, Julia? I thought you broke up with me.”
“I need my photo back.”
Time has no meaning out here, but according to our shipboard computer, it is two minutes before noon. In a few seconds, my co-pilot and I will be the first humans to travel through a wormhole—a black hole, which is kept from collapsing by the greatest feat of engineering the universe has yet witnessed.
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The back of the cab was warm and smelled vaguely of cigarettes. Morgan held Shauna’s hand, tears falling quietly in the darkness on the drive home.
Only emptiness greeted him when he opened the apartment door. He shuffled inside, dimly aware of his wife slipping off her shoes and wandering to the bathroom.
“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 Fool’s prank. My journal ended March 30. I needed to dust and vacuum—again. And those soggy brown bananas
Under the shade of the baobab trees, I watch. I see their wide-eyed looks of awe. I hear the gasps of wonder. Eager tourists face their guide, waiting for him to expound on the phenomena of the rainbow sand before them.
I’ve listened to him teach all day, that the dunes of Chamarel…
I run backward through time, toward the mushroom cloud that will soon be my invention warehouse, thankful that the inversion suit I’m wearing wasn’t destroyed in this inferno.
The eruption shrinks over the warehouse, and the fire bursts bright before reassembling the near end of the building.
Perfect.
I run in through the
It hardly qualified as a graveyard. Nineteen graves in a single row, no fence, no road, no flowers. The foliage grew unchecked. Raw boulders from the nearby stream served as tombstones. They didn’t need markings, for each grave contained the same person.
Me.
A sheen of fresh rain coated every mossy branch and shrub. Fog hung low against the leaf-strewn earth.
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Hank wandered about the empty house, bored out of his mind, from the kitchen with a fridge full of meals, to the TV showing only reruns, to the shelf of books he’d read a dozen times, then all over again. He’d expected having his parents away for five weeks would give him a sense of ecstatic freedom.
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