Page 57 of Time Loops & Meet Cutes
There’s something about her tone that grates on my nerves. It’s patronizing. Like she believes I couldn’t possibly think of such a reasonable idea by myself.
“It’s not all in my mind,” I say. “It’s really happening.”
“I’m sure it feels like that.”
I bite my tongue so I don’t yell at her. “I’ve already seen a doctor. Believe me, I tried. I got a referral to a psychiatrist, butthat’ll probably take months. I mean, it would take months if Iweren’treliving the same day, but as long as I’m stuck in June twentieth, it’ll never happen.”
She takes a step back. “You should go to the hospital,” she says before quickly walking away.
The next person who approaches is a man of indeterminate age. He’s wearing clothes and shoes that have seen better days.
“Can you spare any change?” He holds out an empty cup.
I give him a twenty.
“Thank you,” he says. “God bless.”
Well, that was certainly better than the previous two interactions.
Three hours later, my feet are aching and my faith in humanity is low. Some of the looks we got were unpleasant, to say the least.
“The night market starts soon,” I say to Avery. “I’ll head there now. What about you?”
She shakes her head. “I’m exhausted. I guess I’ll stay here another hour, then head home… except Joe will be around. I didn’t break up with him today.”
“How about this?” I take out my keys and hand them to her. “When you leave, just go to my apartment, okay?”
At the market, I stand on the north side, where people might pass me when exiting the subway station. I recognize some people from my previous trips to the market, and I try to pay careful attention to the times that they come and go. I plan to return tomorrow, and I want to be aware of anything that’s different. That could be a sign.
However, my feet are aching. My arms hurt from holding this stupid piece of cardboard, which I taped to the end of abroom because it was the most suitable object in my apartment.
A few minutes later, a familiar man approaches the market.
It’s Cam.
My face heats as I remember what we did, not far from here, and what I wish we’d had the chance to do.
“I know I’ve seen you before,” he says, “but I can’t remember your name.”
“It’s Noelle.”
Every time he forgets my name, something inside me dies. I should be used to it, but it hurts more than it did before.
“Noelle,” he repeats. “Yes. I remember now.”
“You do? What do you remember?” I feel a spark of hope.
“I don’t recall you telling me your name, but it just feels right.”
I deflate.
He scratches his head and studies my sign. “I swear someone else told me a very similar story, once upon a time, but I can’t remember when or where.” He pauses. “If I recall the details, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll be here for another two hours.”
But I’m pretty sure the story is familiar because his subconscious remembers our conversation the other day. It’s not someone else he’s thinking of; it’s me. And he likely won’t recall any more than he currently does. I want to scream in frustration, but I won’t take it out on Cam. He’s not responsible for any of this.
“Do you need some food?” he asks. “I can give you some cash, and you can buy whatever you want.” He gestures toward the vendors.
