INTERTEMPORAL - A new short story
This one is for a time travel book I am working on
The first draft of this story was less than 100 words, and was written for, and published by, postcardshorts. That platform is now long-dead, so I thought I’d revive the story. This is a much longer version. It feels reminiscent of Heinlein’s ‘By his bootstraps’ which amuses me, as I wrote this story some months ago and read that story last night. I am in a time travelling mood… It is also important to note that back in 2015, when I had the first echo of this story published, I was not aware of the word intertemporal being used in boring business language. I have only just discovered that today whilst looking for my old story online. Enjoy.
A mysterious stranger appears in a hotel doorway
timing,” the woman said as she stumbled out of the revolving doors to the hotel. Lashes of rain beat down against the red covering above, and the street beyond the hotel was murky and vague. She stopped and stood dumbfounded, then smiled sadly, then looked around for something, as if trying to work out where she was.
“What?” the man asked. He was wearing a dark green suit and brown tie, clutching a black briefcase close to his body as he stepped in from the rain. The woman brushed down her bright red coat and smiled at the man.
“Oh I know. I told you already, but I guess you won’t get it yet. It’s a slow burner,” the woman said. She extended a hand to the man. They introduced each other and got talking. The woman turned back and entered the hotel again, this time through the secondary entrance, avoiding the revolving doors.
Once inside they spent some time getting to know each other. The woman in the red coat displayed a peculiar interest in the man in the green suit, coming across as unnaturally proactive in her discovery of his personality. She took him over to a small seating area opposite the hotel reception, curling up in a curved sofa behind some tall potted plants. The man sat down uneasily, still wondering why this stranger was so interested in him. The woman rested her chin on one hand and asked him piercing questions about his life and his passions. The man quickly discovered through this strange interrogation that they had some similarities, but that their personalities for the most part were opposed to one another. This didn’t seem to matter, or it mattered in a positive way, because shortly after this rushed introduction the woman in the red coat was leading the man to the hotel bar and ordering them both cocktails.
She waited until the man in the green suit was suitably relaxed to bring up the real reason she had begun talking to him.
“I’m a time traveller,” she said. “I have lived this night before, though I don’t know how many times. We fall in love and spend a week together.”
The man laughed this off nervously. But already he knew she was not lying, and this unsettled him. He was not the type to be interested in anybody, but something about her caught his attention the second she emerged from those golden revolving doors, as if he was meant to collide with her. He didn’t admit this, but privately he already believed her, no matter how strange her claim was.
“You don’t love me yet. But you will do, and I love you,” the woman said. The man leaned back in his chair and sipped some more of his cocktail, trying not to wince at the strength of it. The woman laughed.
“I love that little thing you do, when you scrunch up your nose,” she said.
“Do you? I always thought it was embarrassing.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Never gets old.”
“And neither do you,” the man said, cutting through the woman’s story. Of course he didn’t want to believe she was a time traveller. It was a ridiculous idea, something reserved for playful science fiction stories, not pick-up lines. She might have come across as convincing, but this was likely because she was attractive and he was gullible. He could admit this much about himself privately, but not out loud.
“If you have really gone back in time to relive this night, then why aren’t there two of you?” the man asked. The woman turned to him soberly and nodded, saying, “A fair question. The truth is that I don’t know. What I do know is that the waiter is about to bring us the wrong drinks, and that you were going to ask me about my brooch next, to make small talk.”
If you want more stories like this, subscribe!
The woman was right. The man had been eyeing an unusual star-shaped brooch on her coat. The woman removed it and placed it on the table, pushing it over to him. It was a ten-pointed star composed of two overlaying five-sided stars, the effect obtained by the clever use of eleven carved pieces of what looked like black garnet – the first five being simple triangles, the second five being kite shapes that fit between these, and the eleventh jewel being a central pentagon. These two black stars were framed by an intricate golden frame that grew fatter close to the centre of the stars, as if to support their weight. It was an intricate and unusual piece, surprisingly large for a brooch.
“Your drinks,” the waiter said.
“They’re the wrong ones,” the woman replied immediately. She paused as the waiter hesitated. He had yet to bring them down from the tray, but he took one look at them and realised his mistake.
“Quite right, sorry about that,” the waiter said.
“It’s okay,” the woman smiled. The waiter went away and she continued her conversation.
“I was wearing it when I showed up here, so I can leave the thing anywhere and it will find its way back to me,” she explained. She took the brooch back and reaffixed it to her coat lapel, adjusting it so it was in the precise position it came from.
“The same goes for this,” she said, showing the man a ring on one finger. “I can’t lose this, even if I try to.”
“If you don’t mind,” the woman said. “I’d like to tell you that I missed you during my journey. I do not know how long it took for my soul to find its way back to today, only that I felt a great absence between then and now. I left too quick last time, and the times before. So many times fading into one. But this night is one of the best, if you would spend it with me?”
“Of course,” the man stumbled over his words. He felt nervous and excited, as if he was about to embark on a great journey, as if he was afloat in a river and allowing it to take him wherever it curved and flowed. There was something primal about that moment, a sense of giving in to a universal force. The woman reached out and held his hand.
“I’m telling the truth you know,” she said. The man nodded nervously. It was clear that this lunatic stranger had triggered something deep and ancient inside his chest. An internal ticking had begun inside dusty old compartments and forgotten machinery. She was intelligent and beautiful, sure, but she was something more than human too. It was as if he knew her from not just another life, but from all lives, as if her delicate face and her soothing voice was written into the fabric of the universe. He remembered a lecture on mathematics he had attended at university. The visiting professor had spoken of the beauty of numbers and patterns, how flowers and shells and trees all followed a similar code, and that this code resulted in a type of beauty that was not just tangible, but fractal. It was the entire universe contained in the growth of slime moulds and plant roots.
The man in the green suit and brown tie looked at the woman in the red coat with the black star brooch and felt his animal mind reconstructing her code desperately. He looked at her and saw with something other than his eyes a great line of numbers spinning and spiralling. It was as if her pupils were black holes, and on their horizon was imprinted the location and trajectory of every single particle in the cosmos. Within her the entire universe was whirling away, vast interstellar furnaces sharing the same calculations that had thrown her through that revolving door only a handful of conversations ago.
She was right. He would love her. It had started. Even as he tried vainly to fight it - an experiment to prove his own free will - he failed.
That night the new couple stayed up and talked about their childhoods. The woman in the red coat now stood at the bedroom window in a blue dress, and the man stood not too far behind her, holding the braces clipped to his trousers and pacing around like a detective, trying to unravel the dark mystery of their familiarity.
“Do you think perhaps we shared a school, a childhood street?” he asked, still trying to disbelieve the time travel story.
“If I am to be honest with you, I think my childhood is illusory, that I was somewhere else before I was here, that my brain is telling me to be human because that is the type of memory it expects, because it is a human-shaped brain. But that is not the type of memory I find in there when I look, and I am afraid of looking too deep,” the woman said. She was clearly troubled by the mystery of her existence. The man, now slightly more convinced as to both her delusion and her truthfulness, placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. He felt an electricity between them.
“For what it’s worth I want to believe you,” he said.
“Then what’s stopping you?” the woman asked. In the shaft of clean moonlight from the window her face appeared like a marble statue, a monument to some goddess long gone from the world. The man’s hand fell down to his side as she turned to face him, and she took the hand in hers and delicately stroked a finger with her thumb. As he looked in her eyes he felt as if he was dying, or already dead, and that this strange woman was visiting him to say goodbye. He couldn’t explain why, but this feeling did not scare him.
The next days passed them swiftly and silently. The young couple got to know each other better, exploring the old architecture of the hotel and trying every item on the breakfast menu. The man found himself falling helplessly in love with the woman, and the woman found herself becoming more and more anxious with each passing day. She had lived this all before, and she knew how it was doomed to end. This time however, she was certain she could change it.
“I shan’t be leaving you this time,” the woman said on the final morning. It was cold and early, the morning sun crossed into the room as a cruel reminder of the passing time.
“I know, I believe you,” the man said. Privately he wondered what his parents might think about his new love. They would certainly have preferred a sane person, but there was no denying that this woman made his life considerably better, and that she improved his overall confidence and mood.
“I know you don’t believe the time traveller thing,” the woman said. “But that’s okay. Sometimes I don’t either.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” the man said. “Would you like to go shopping later?”
“As a date?”
“I’d rather see a film.”
“The theatre is closed for renovations,” the man replied.
“You know everything, so why suggest it?”
“Because we could sneak in.”
“Did we sneak in last time you were here?”
“See, you do believe me,” the woman said. Despite the early hours she crawled out of bed and started to get dressed. She put on her blue dress and red coat and held the brooch briefly before putting it back down behind the clock by the mirror, making sure the man didn’t notice her leaving it behind. She did the same with the ring, then hurried him to get ready and hurried him out of the door.
“Isn’t it early for breakfast?” the man said.
“It is,” the woman replied. She watched as he began to walk down the corridor to the stairs, and briefly turned back and glanced at the brooch and ring behind the clock.
They got down long before other guests would be dining, so they were the first to fill their plates. The young couple exchanged almost sorrowful looks at each other as they had what they knew would be their final meal. The man amassed an impressive collection of sausages and gravy, whilst the woman constructed something complicated with scrambled eggs and toast. They both drank orange juice, hoping to fuel themselves for the strange day lingering ahead. The man felt hungover, despite not drinking the previous evening.
“This is the bit that is blurry isn’t it?” the man asked. The woman nodded silently, biting into her toast.
“I remember the beginning the most. Everything else is fuzzy. I think it’s happened so many times that my brain has gotten worn down, like an overplayed record. I don’t know exactly when I leave, but I know it’s today, so I want it to be good.”
It was the man’s turn to nod silently. He contemplated what the woman had said and looked at her dressed up and ready to vanish. She looked exactly as she had when she had first stumbled through those golden revolving doors, except now something was missing, something he couldn’t quite work out.
“Have you changed your hair?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” the woman said defensively. “We shall go to the theatre today whether the universe wants us to or not.” She nodded defiantly toward her plan and the man joined in.
“What do you want to see?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.”
“All I know is that if I don’t remember today clearly, then I have at least some freedom,” the woman said. The pair finished their breakfast and headed around to the seated area opposite the hotel reception, sitting where they had sat a week before when they first met. The man held the woman’s hand this time, looking into her eyes and wondering if any of the last week had actually happened. He realised he had almost forgotten why he had booked into the hotel in the first place. Eventually the woman worked up the courage to walk over the tiled floor to the lobby, and from there she stared endlessly at the revolving doors, which were locked this early in the morning.
“Even the little doors are locked,” she said to the man beside her. He nodded.
“So we will get assistance,” he said.
“If what I remember is everything leading up to today, then there is a closing window now in which my future self can show up. If she doesn’t show up, what does that mean? Am I immortal? Is this some sort of loop inside my mind? Is my real body elsewhere? Is this all a dream? It is haunting me,” she admitted.
“I know,” the man replied.
“Everything I have done until now was set in time, but today it is as if a haze has descended upon me. I cannot think, I can barely feel. I do not want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” the man said. Again he felt as if the woman had lost her mind some time ago, and suddenly his brief but intense relationship with her felt wrong, as if he had merely gone along with everything an insane person had suggested. He looked at her and knew this was untrue. She was genuine. What she was telling him was real, whether his mind could understand it or not.
“There is nobody at reception,” the woman said.
“Then I will call someone, and we shall go out of the little door.”
“Nobody will answer. You will go to look for keys in the room behind reception. I will wait here for my future self, so we can continue our lives where we left off.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” the man said jokingly. Under his tone was a darker realisation, that the woman might be planning to abandon him here and now, that she might have a husband and family somewhere. His heart sank at the thought of being scammed for love.
“Don’t forget I love you,” the woman said, as if to reply to his thoughts.
“I never stop thinking about it,” the man replied. He kissed her.
“What if this time travel exerts a pressure on your mind in the same way a long trip by land or sea does? Perhaps your forgetfulness is due to the journey. Maybe you should sit down,” he said.
“I’ll be okay. I will wait here,” the woman replied. The man in the green suit and brown tie walked reluctantly to the hotel reception, clambering behind the desk and into the next room, leaving the woman in the blue dress and the red coat waiting in the centre of the tiled lobby. There she waited alone under the warm glow of the hotel lights, staring out into the unfamiliar world behind the locked glass doors. She felt a lump in her coat pocket. She waited for what felt like minutes, then began talking to herself.
“And so the time traveller, who was certainly real and not just the product of a stray knot of time, waited by the hotel reception as the man she loved hunted desperately for the keys. She had a minute, maybe more before he returned, and in that minute she hoped that her older self might show up.”
The woman spoke these words softly to herself, a little fiction to pass the nervous time. The doors ahead remained locked and untouched. There was no traffic outside. There was no sound inside, and so she lowered her voice again for the next part of her story.
“The time traveller waited and waited, and finally was visited by her older self. Now, wearing the brooch and silver ring her younger self had once abandoned so many lives ago, the older time traveller appeared in front of the revolving doors, stepping into view as if from nowhere,” the woman said. Pausing before continuing.
“In reality she had emerged from a staff room whilst her younger self was preoccupied with looking down at her shoes,” the woman said. She twisted her shoes on the tiles, wondered if it was possible to damage them in such a way that her future self might trip over something on the next loop. She kicked at the tile and listened to the dull squeak of her shoe. It was impossible.
She began to wonder if she was in fact aging and the hotel around her was what was getting older. She thought about a labyrinth toy she had in her childhood, a childhood that might not have been real at all. She thought about its wooden platforms and holes, how a silver ball could be guided from one side to the other using delicate control of the two twisting knobs on two sides of the thing. She imagined the tiles below her were the labyrinth, that she was the ball, and that the scuff mark could be a sufficient obstacle to help her escape next time. This time it was too late, unless she could carve some message to herself that she might read, but she knew whatever invisible forces cleaned the hotel would find it and erase it. It would be gone precisely because she had not read it yet, because it was always meant to vanish.
But there was still time. Her lover had yet to return from his search for the keys. The chandelier above had yet to fall. The glass of the doors had yet to smash. The Earth had yet to stop spinning. Time had yet to stop.
Now she imagined all the possibilities were compressed into one final minute; a circular room in the metaphorical labyrinth, a huge golden sword sweeping through it. A mass of swords all stacked one on top of the other. A sweeping evil thing that would slice her into atom-thin slices like agate turned into jewellery. She pawed the space where her brooch should be, then felt her naked finger. She contemplated the jewellery she should be wearing upon her emergence from the revolving doors one week previously and smiled to herself nervously, believing for a second that she had cheated the system.
“There must still be time,” she whispered to herself before continuing her story.
“The time traveller had waited patiently and been rewarded. Her future self had shown her a way out of her fate now, something that could be attained in the next few loops. Something would change, and something else, and something else again, until enough of a deviation was made that the traveller could become the slightly older woman whose hand had just brushed upon hers, whose eyes she had met as if they belonged to an ancient goddess dragged from myth into reality. The traveller knew there was an escape now. Her older self would cross in front of her, walking a diagonal path through the hotel lobby to the small tall sitting room. There she would wait behind a large potted plant, unnoticed by the younger time traveller’s lover, but watching silently, knowing her younger self was now set on the right path.”
The words left the woman’s lips like a fairy tale. She had to force herself to believe it. Without doing so there was no hope, there was only her lover and the keys he could bring to unlock one door or the other. She knew that in order to meet him she had to step through those revolving doors, but something inside her yearned to carry on into the future, even if it meant leaving her love behind.
“Honey!” she called out into the void behind the hotel reception.
“I have had a wonderful week,” she announced. Her voice echoed from the fittings and the chandelier and the high ceilings and far walls, bouncing around and dissipating again against her skin.
“It is just the beginning,” the man called from his corner of the back office. The woman continued waiting for the keys he would bring that would release her or prove she was immortal, trapped to forget and remember and forget again in some endless loop, trapped to have him fall for her and for her to break his heart once a week. She wondered if the man and the hotel and the breakfasts and cocktails existed elsewhere in time, if this was a knotted moment formed in the same way oxbow lakes formed from rivers curving too close to themselves. She wondered if she was occupying multiple places in time, rather than simply falling forwards or backwards, but the notion made little sense and what sense was made was not enough to make her feel better. Whoever she was before this, she was not someone who had been keen to consider the intricacies of time travel. That at least ruled out a profession in the impossible business, but it did not rule out any other ridiculous possibility.
Now she considered her condition to be some form of mania, an insanity brought about by the monotony and repetitiveness of the modern world. She remembered the man telling her about his careful choice of hotel room, remembered telling him that all the rooms on that floor were the same. His reply was that he liked to face the sunrise and that he liked proximity to stairwells and fire exits. She hadn’t considered it at the time, but now she realised he too was trapped in some way, prepared at any moment for the possibility of danger. That was the unspoken bond between them, that they both knew on some imperceptible level that something in the hotel was out to get them, but that they had to come here anyway, against their instincts, against time itself.
She glanced over at the little room and its potted plants and saw nobody sat there. There was no future self waiting to close the loop. All the world’s automobiles and factories and suits and dresses and conformism must have fried some circuit in her brain. This was an unnatural hotel in an unnatural world.
She felt the lump in her pocket again, sensing a fork in the road ahead.
“As if by magic, a gust of wind had unlocked the secondary doors,” she said. She waited, and it didn’t happen. She thought of steam engines and pistons, huge chains and clockwork mechanisms springing from nowhere and prising the doors open, allowing her to escape without using the rotating doors.
“As if by magic, the doors unlocked.” She said it again, and again nothing happened. She concentrated her entire being on the pivot point of the doors, staring up at them hopelessly, willing them to open as if she had telekinetic control over anything mechanical.
Elsewhere the man read each key label one by one. He was more than half way down now, surely it would be close.
After another minute or two the man finally found what he thought was the right key. He leapt out from the little office and ran up to the woman. She was stood deathly still, staring at the now moving revolving doors. The others were still locked.
“She came,” she said, “And opened up the doors.”
“Really?” the man asked. The woman turned to him and forced a smile.
“Yes. You won’t mind that she’s a bit older will you?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Well, she will meet you soon. But I must go,” the woman said. She looked ahead again to the revolving doors that had become unstuck moments before, and thought about her next words carefully.
“When? Where?” the man asked.
“In the bar where we sat on the first night. She will be there soon, though I do not know exactly when.”
“Does she still want to be with me?”
“Of course, but you must understand she is some years older.”
“I don’t care.”
“She will still be the woman I love.”
“Thank you,” the woman in the red coat said.
“So you don’t need the key for the other door?”
“I suppose not. My older self has given me the instructions, I know what to do now to escape the loop.”
“It still makes so little sense,” the man admitted. “To think you could repeat endlessly. That is why I struggled to believe you, because one person cannot last forever.”
“I know,” the woman said.
“And to think she told you everything in such a short time, before I came out of the key room.”
“I know,” the woman said. “But look.” She tapped the brooch on her coat and lifted her hand to show the ring on her finger.
“I left these upstairs.”
“That’s what was missing!”
“See. There is no way I could get up and back down in that time. My future self brought them to me.”
“I think I am beginning to understand,” the man said. The woman smiled and kissed him, holding his hands.
“You must be patient for me. Allow me to go through those doors, this time pushing them the other way, leading myself into the future,” the woman explained.
“I will,” the man said. The woman pulled away but he maintained a reluctant grip on her hands.
“How long?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but she, I, will return.”
“Okay,” the man said. The woman faced the revolving doors again, then turned to the seating area behind the tall potted plants. There was no future incarnation waiting to stop her. She began to advance towards the revolving doors, compelled by forces she could not explain. She felt tears building up below her eyes.
“I have had such a wonderful week,” she said.
“We both have.” The man held her hand as she walked to the revolving doors, not once letting go. She stopped just short of them and turned to him.
“You must promise me that you will tell people about me,” she said. The man didn’t understand.
“If you are to return, you can tell them yourself.”
“I know. But if something goes wrong, promise me you will tell people. That there are minds that can stretch through time, creatures unseen and unheard that push and pull at human souls, that brought me here and can remove me when they please.”
“I’m not following you,” the man admitted. Again he was confused by what the woman in the blue dress and red coat was saying. She smiled sadly and pressed her forehead against his.
“It’s not true is it?” the man asked.
“Your story about your future self.” He looked at her with a mix of longing and loss, as if she was already gone and he was already buried, a short human life compared to her infinity.
“I’m not human. I know that much,” the woman finally admitted. “Maybe I was at some point, but I’m stuck in time now, a circular thing. My death is my birth, my birth is my death. Like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly through the interim of some jelly-like liquid medium, I was nothing and everything for a while before I came here, omnipotent, omniscient even. Then that mind was ripped from me like a newly developed organ. I was gutted of my heightened intelligence, don’t you see? Time travel made me human, not the other way around.”
The man didn’t see. In fact he could hardly understand at all. They had talked of science fiction and strange theories in physics during their brief week together, but none of it could explain this. There was no time machine buried under the hotel, no supermassive black hole lurking ominously beyond the sky, no time authorities coming back to clean up some anachronistic mess. Nothing was out of the ordinary and the revolving doors were just revolving doors, nothing more. There was no filter of cosmic annihilation between the future and past which would shred his lover and spew out her atoms in another region of spacetime. There were no teleporters or physical trickery. This was simply an insane situation, a dreamlike plane of existence. Briefly the man wondered if he had been drugged, if he had come up with some hybrid of those science fiction pulps he had read as a boy. No, it made no sense, it couldn’t be.
The woman in the red coat fastened its buttons and spoke again. “I have this hideous fear that you’re out there somewhere, behind me in time, and you’re knelt in the rainwater by the revolving doors and begging the universe to bring me back. But I’m a loop now, a loop that can see and feel.”
“Neither of us are really here, are we?” the man asked.
“It is a distinct form a torture, a punishment for rogue time travellers,” the woman started. She looked through the glass of the revolving doors at the deluged street. The morning rush had begun. Cars sloshed through the rain, and men in black suits and black hats scurried like insects and ran between each other, each rushing to some nondescript job in some nondescript building. They were no higher here than any of the beasts of the world they had bested. This was a hell of their own making. They had become their own predators and their own prey. From inside the hotel the increasingly busy world outside felt repetitive, as if people’s lives were mere decoration atop a humongous clockwork thing, a beast of rhythmic machinery and polished metal.
“I have a theory,” the woman said. “That if I go back through these doors I die and a new me is reborn a week ago, finishes what I say and repeats the cycle. So why don’t I remember remembering? Why hasn’t it spiralled out of control like a toy breaking more and more with each loop? The only answer is that something destructive and transformative happens between those two seconds, that the transformative goop of the caterpillar becomes a way of rewriting its own history. But then what came before? Who was I before I came here and pretended to leave my brooch and my ring upstairs? Why do I feel compelled to go back again through time. Is it part of my nature? Do I need to go back through time like a moth to a flame? Do I yearn for destruction due to an error in my clockwork? What am I beyond the automata of my thought process?”
She was clearly disturbed by the questions, and had taken a few cautious steps away from the revolving doors to stand uneasily between them and the secondary set of doors. Her lover in the green suit and brown tie flashed the keys once again, indicating she still had some choice.
“I know these thoughts have kept you awake at night, specifically the fourth and fifth night,” the woman said. “Your pacing woke me up, I pretended not to notice.”
“I didn’t know,” the man said.
“It’s okay. It bothers me too.”
“Then what are you, if not human?” the man asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” the mystery in the red coat said. She felt a wave of dizziness take over her body and stumbled. Her lover caught her and helped her back to her feet.
“I think linear time is killing me,” she said. Her lover looked deep into her eyes and saw something ancient and innocent within them. It was like making eye contact with a strange animal, an intelligence that shouldn’t be. He could feel the pain in her eyes. She began crying.
“I can’t remember my home, before I fell here,” she said. She nudged the man away and stepped once again toward the revolving doors, composing herself.
“But you know you fell, fell from where? That’s how we work it out,” the man said.
“I think I get it now,” the mystery in the red coat said. “Listening to the voice inside my head, I think I know what I need to do.”
“And what’s that?” her lover asked. The woman accepted her fate.
“Tell you a joke.”
“Of course,” the mystery in the red coat said, adjusting the ring and her brooch. “That’s the thing with jokes. I always wondered as a child if there was some mathematical formula to make a joke funny. If it wasn’t about the story itself but the delivery.” She backed toward the revolving door, still making eye contact with her lover as she edged into the cylindrical contraption.
“Don’t go,” the man said. The mystery smiled.
“I realise now, looking back, remembering the first thing I said when we met. The essence of comedy is underneath the words. It’s mathematical. It isn’t really about the message or the story at all.”
“Isn’t it?” her lover asked.
“No. It’s all about
She was cut off. The door spun madly. The man fell to his knees and wept.
Hey, thanks for reading this. If you liked it, could you share it with people? I have no budget for advertising whatsoever, and it is nigh impossible to get noticed without one.