HE tried his best to go along with this but his faith was beginning to wear thin.
“Please, Fran’. For me.”
He had no clue what she meant by “taking them back there”. Maybe it was some kind of metaphor? Regardless, he still wanted to believe her, by this point logic had gone out the window.
He took her hands in his and closed his eyes. For a brief moment he was able to concentrate on everything else around him more closely; How the ground felt beneath him, slightly creaky wooden floors, the sounds echoing from the tall walls, the muffled giggles of some children, followed by a guardian’s “shush”. A light breeze, like a draft from a window on a summer’s afternoon, brushed his neck. Then silence washed in behind it. His instincts immediately wanted to open his eyes, but his better judgement and trust in Clara urged him not to.
He stayed motionless, once again holding his breath in fear that the slightest of movements would fracture this moment, wherever they were. He was grounded by the soothingness of Clara’s voice.
It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, but upon regaining full perception of the room around him, he felt as if nothing had changed. Was this just a joke? Before he could open his mouth, he felt a dampness clinging to his body. He looked down to find himself in the same old jeans, soaked through jacket and button up he was wearing on their first date. Any words that were about to fall from his mouth immediately dissipated into the air. Noticing this, Clara tried to ease his tension.
His voice, an octave higher, was a dead giveaway to the reality he was, in fact, freaking out.
“Whaaat, I’m not freaking out, you’re the one who’s freaking out!”
“Shhh! Keep it down. I know how bizarre this is, but we don’t want anyone to stare… In hindsight, I maybe should’ve picked somewhere that would have masked a potential public freak out better, like a nightclub, lol.”
Francis’ voice was now a strained whisper.
“I told you, I inherited this from the women in my family an…”
“No, no, I know how, but like how does it work? I can’t understand this. What about the versions of us left in the present? Do alternate realities exist? And if they do, what about the butterfly effect?”
Clara had noticed, during his heightened state, Francis had dropped her hands. She took them once more, and began rubbing light circles in his palms as a way to hopefully calm him. She told him she probably wouldn’t have all the answers to every question he had, after all, she was still just figuring this out for herself.
When reality sank in, Francis took a better look at his surroundings. Structurally, the building was the same of course, but details besides the dampness of his clothes to his cold skin, made it obvious they had indeed gone back in time by three years. The exhibition he could see in the neighbouring room was entirely different, a sign leading into the space read
“Murillo: The Prodigal Son Restored -From 29th February, 2020.”
There was a steady queue of people shuffling their way inside, alluding to the fact this was a recent opening. The more obvious of facts was that this was pre-Covid, no masks, or degraded floor markings urging people to socially distance. The effects of Covid hadn’t yet stricken Dublin. It was totally strange to watch.
And then, there she was, Clara. Captured like the most vivid time capsule. Her hair frizzy and slightly tangled with her once signature ‘e girl strips’ as they called them, two platinum blonde streaks framing her face.
He couldn’t help but see that no matter where in time they were, she was always beautiful to him. He was weirdly overcome by emotion, tears started to swell at the bottom of his eyes. Clara was quick to notice this, and to save him from feeling embarrassed (as she predicted he would) she instead said: “Oh yeah, that’s normal, time jumping can have some effects on the body until you become used to it, don’t worry about that.”
He knew what she was doing, and appreciated her more for it.
“Hey, you wanna get some food? I know a place that hasn’t been ruined by online hype yet.”
Her smile was genuine. She was happy they were here. Francis squeezed her hand back and led them outside, completely unbothered by the rain. How did the city look the exact same yet totally different at the same time? Time was a funny thing, it mostly splashed in waves, but sometimes it rippled quietly through the streets.
In just three years, every single one of these people would have their entire lives changed, some would lose family members, others would grow up to find they needed to move abroad. It was jolting for Francis to be back in a body that had so much to learn from his present mind. He wished he could tell this version of himself that it would all work out OK.
They ended up in a small hot pot restaurant on Parnell Street, if they had visited this place in the present, they’d be guaranteed at least a 20-minute wait without a booking, but on this day they were seated as soon as they walked in the door. After careful examination of the menu they placed their orders; two mouth-watering dishes of chicken curry hot pot.
The gurgling in Francis’ stomach was all of a sudden very apparent to the both of them. Food was a good idea. He was always at his most level- headed with a full stomach. Clara obviously remembered this, offering him a prawn cracker.
“So, Fran’, where would you like to go? Or should I say, when?”
If you want to begin the Summer Soap series, see here.
