[[ wheelsy, south carolina ]]
[ "Bill, I'm Kate. It's really nice to meet you." ]
She should tell him.
She should, shouldn't she?
A thousand and one possibilities cycle through her thoughts, the same fear shadowing each of them: What if this damages his timeline, somehow? What if she ruins something by telling him she met his younger self in the bar?
- - - - -
She falls into a fitful sleep, well before Bill comes home.
- - - - -
She wakes a few hours later, still in her short khaki skirt and summery top, to the sound of Bill snoring next to her.
She scrubs her eyes and sits up, rumpled and groggy. The light blanket Bill must've covered her with before bed slips to her waist.
Squinting at the clock on the nightstand, she breathes out something between a sigh and a yawn. With a glance at her wrinkled clothes, she slides out of bed to change into actual sleepwear.
She pulls on a fresh camisole, and finds her favorite pair of yoga pants, worn soft and thin from hundreds of washings. In the bathroom, she pulls her tousled hair into a ponytail; she washes her face and brushes her teeth as quietly as possible, in hopes that she won't interrupt Bill's sleep.
- - - - -
She can't turn off her brain.
Giving up, she pads out of the bedroom, careful not to wake Bill. She pours herself a glass of white wine, and flips on a single lamp in the living room.
She settles into her favorite corner of the couch, a navy scrapbook in tow. Its contents have become as familiar as some of her own family photo albums, each newspaper clipping and photo caption holding information that feels firsthand, now, instead of second and third.
As horrifying and heart-breaking as most of the photographs are, she draws a strange kind of comfort from every page she pores and flips.
She should tell him.
She should, shouldn't she?
A thousand and one possibilities cycle through her thoughts, the same fear shadowing each of them: What if this damages his timeline, somehow? What if she ruins something by telling him she met his younger self in the bar?
- - - - -
She falls into a fitful sleep, well before Bill comes home.
- - - - -
She wakes a few hours later, still in her short khaki skirt and summery top, to the sound of Bill snoring next to her.
She scrubs her eyes and sits up, rumpled and groggy. The light blanket Bill must've covered her with before bed slips to her waist.
Squinting at the clock on the nightstand, she breathes out something between a sigh and a yawn. With a glance at her wrinkled clothes, she slides out of bed to change into actual sleepwear.
She pulls on a fresh camisole, and finds her favorite pair of yoga pants, worn soft and thin from hundreds of washings. In the bathroom, she pulls her tousled hair into a ponytail; she washes her face and brushes her teeth as quietly as possible, in hopes that she won't interrupt Bill's sleep.
- - - - -
She can't turn off her brain.
Giving up, she pads out of the bedroom, careful not to wake Bill. She pours herself a glass of white wine, and flips on a single lamp in the living room.
She settles into her favorite corner of the couch, a navy scrapbook in tow. Its contents have become as familiar as some of her own family photo albums, each newspaper clipping and photo caption holding information that feels firsthand, now, instead of second and third.
As horrifying and heart-breaking as most of the photographs are, she draws a strange kind of comfort from every page she pores and flips.