Time Out

by

Samantha E Talbot​

“It’s Saturday,” you tell me. 


I look over from my side of your bed. Your mouth is all tense and line-y, and I think I liked you better drunk. 


“Yeah, so?” My t-shirt is balled up atop a dusty tower of CDs. I hook it with my toe and scan the room for the rest of my discarded clothing items.


“Your underwear says Wednesday.” 


I laugh as I slip on the t-shirt. “OK,” I answer. “And?”


“And I guess I’m saying that if you took the time and effort to buy days-of-the-week underwear, you’d adhere to them, is all.” 


I sit there, one sock on, the other likely permanently lost in the detritus surrounding the bed, and toss my hands up in surrender. “OK, you caught me. I only bought Wednesday,” I lie, “in protest.” 


“Of what?” you say, and now you’ve angled yourself up against the headboard. You’re starting to look cute again. 


“I dunno. The slavish adherence to the ridiculous concept called ‘time.’” I pause. “Have you seen my flannel?”


You throw an arm in the direction of the door and then space out for a while, which is fine by me.


I find my pants hanging off a dresser knob, the button-down behind the door as promised, and am happy to note that both shoes are right where I left them: in the hall.


“Wait,” you say, suddenly serious, “you have a problem with time?”
I am as fully dressed as I am going to be, and I'm more than ready to go. “Not all the time, actually. Just the linear variety.”  


You look confused, and while I can’t say that I blame you, I’ve got to go. Now. My countdown has already started. “Okay,” I say, “thanks for all the fun.”


“Oh, you’re going? Already?”


“Work.” I shrug. “Never stops.” As if I know. 


You nod, because you do know. “Can I call you?”


“Sure,” I say, because you seem to need assurances. 


I’m through the portal in a flash and back home: Quadrant 59, 4041 AD. You are now long dead, and that makes me surprisingly sad for a couple of minutes, but I get over it quickly because I can’t wait to see you again. I just have to save up enough credits. 


I disengage from the TimeHop® app, but not before I save your timestamp coordinates. 1995 in what used to be America was Hoppergal567’s first pick in her “Rex for Sex” list. HG calls it: “A heady combination of political apathy, aggressive freethinking, and charmingly naïve sensual experimentation set against the backdrop of a sprawling hellscape of strip malls and strip clubs.” 


I love that quote. 


I’ll have to research weird old slang before I go back. I still have no idea what “call you” means. I gotta say, it sounds pretty searing.