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Endless
"Like Groundhog Day?"
The young man with the soft curly hair shuffles in place in the armchair, unable to settle himself. His rich brown eyes, dark like an old oak and hardened with a wisdom more befitting the years of a forest than his youthful face should hold, remain transfixed on the hardwood flooring.
"Yeah," he says, after a short pause, his voice falling with resignation. "Like Groundhog Day."
His name is Daniel Burrowes; he is twenty-six years old, and is a journalist from Norwood Green. We're sat in a Caffè Nero in Pimlico, near Warwick Square. It seems pure chance that we met: I was en route to a matinee from my home at the Royal Hospital, and he had just passed me when I heard the thud of him collapsing to the pavement. Of course, I checked him over—no concussion, nothing broken, pulse steady—and helped him to his feet when it was clear he was well. And that would have been the end of it, had this stranger not thanked me by name.
I make a little noise of affirmation, a small hum in the back of my throat, take another sip of my flat white, and study Daniel further. His story is, of course, absurd, but there is something about him, some manner in which he holds himself, some earnestness in his wise, expressive eyes, that betrays a deep sincerity. And I do mean betrays: he seems quite reluctant to be divulging his story. He seems tense, his body stiff with anticipation, as a child waiting for the crack of a ruler across his knuckles, and his lips are pulled taught in consternation.
"I believe you," I say, my gaze as steady and firm as I can make it. I want to ease that tension of his. He and I, it seems, share a love of fascinating people—and whether his story is true in a literal sense or not, he does fascinate me, and I can't bear the thought of driving him away before I've heard the whole tale. But he seems no less stiff than he was before, still wound up.
"Thank you," he says, quietly. There's a flash of a smile at the corner of his mouth, just caught in the crease of his lips. I'm struck again by how plainly he wears his feelings. "You don't always. Most of the time, even."
It adds, I think, to the strangeness of the situation, to be told that I do not always react like this. But I can think of a million and one ways in which he could have presented this tale that would have me dismiss him at once. It's not so surprising.
"There is one thing I don't understand." I place my coffee cup down, frowning at him. "Why me? I mean to say that you seem to hold my opinion in some regard. What have I done on those days only you can remember to deserve it?"
He lets out a shuddering breath, and his dark eyes widen a touch in surprise, as if he had not known he was holding it. Expressions flash across his face: surprise, shock, regret, fear, acceptance. It's not clear to me why my question would provoke such a response.
"Of course," he says. "The day you believe me is the day you forget." He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small notebook: bound in blue, clasped shut by a band of grey elastic, and passes it to me. Flicking it open, I find a hasty scrawl—pages upon pages of interview notes. It takes a moment before the shock sets in. They are all about me.
"Every one of our past interviews is there," he says. "I've been working on a piece with you about your life—recalling your achievements before the disease took them. I'm not the only one stuck in this loop."
The young man with the soft curly hair shuffles in place in the armchair, unable to settle himself. His rich brown eyes, dark like an old oak and hardened with a wisdom more befitting the years of a forest than his youthful face should hold, remain transfixed on the hardwood flooring.
"Yeah," he says, after a short pause, his voice falling with resignation. "Like Groundhog Day."
His name is Daniel Burrowes; he is twenty-six years old, and is a journalist from Norwood Green. We're sat in a Caffè Nero in Pimlico, near Warwick Square. It seems pure chance that we met: I was en route to a matinee from my home at the Royal Hospital, and he had just passed me when I heard the thud of him collapsing to the pavement. Of course, I checked him over—no concussion, nothing broken, pulse steady—and helped him to his feet when it was clear he was well. And that would have been the end of it, had this stranger not thanked me by name.
I make a little noise of affirmation, a small hum in the back of my throat, take another sip of my flat white, and study Daniel further. His story is, of course, absurd, but there is something about him, some manner in which he holds himself, some earnestness in his wise, expressive eyes, that betrays a deep sincerity. And I do mean betrays: he seems quite reluctant to be divulging his story. He seems tense, his body stiff with anticipation, as a child waiting for the crack of a ruler across his knuckles, and his lips are pulled taught in consternation.
"I believe you," I say, my gaze as steady and firm as I can make it. I want to ease that tension of his. He and I, it seems, share a love of fascinating people—and whether his story is true in a literal sense or not, he does fascinate me, and I can't bear the thought of driving him away before I've heard the whole tale. But he seems no less stiff than he was before, still wound up.
"Thank you," he says, quietly. There's a flash of a smile at the corner of his mouth, just caught in the crease of his lips. I'm struck again by how plainly he wears his feelings. "You don't always. Most of the time, even."
It adds, I think, to the strangeness of the situation, to be told that I do not always react like this. But I can think of a million and one ways in which he could have presented this tale that would have me dismiss him at once. It's not so surprising.
"There is one thing I don't understand." I place my coffee cup down, frowning at him. "Why me? I mean to say that you seem to hold my opinion in some regard. What have I done on those days only you can remember to deserve it?"
He lets out a shuddering breath, and his dark eyes widen a touch in surprise, as if he had not known he was holding it. Expressions flash across his face: surprise, shock, regret, fear, acceptance. It's not clear to me why my question would provoke such a response.
"Of course," he says. "The day you believe me is the day you forget." He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small notebook: bound in blue, clasped shut by a band of grey elastic, and passes it to me. Flicking it open, I find a hasty scrawl—pages upon pages of interview notes. It takes a moment before the shock sets in. They are all about me.
"Every one of our past interviews is there," he says. "I've been working on a piece with you about your life—recalling your achievements before the disease took them. I'm not the only one stuck in this loop."
Quick retrospective from me just for people reading this after the fact: I really don't like this one at all, but in my defense I thought the deadline was two hours later than it actually ended up being and forced myself to rush to submit something as part of my plan to build a habit of writing again, which explains the frankly nonsensical ending (this was submitted in the last 20 seconds of the grace period. whoops.) Still feel a bit bad for submitting something that really hasn't had any of the care and attention that it should have had, honestly, but I remember telling Monokeras off years ago for apologising about writeoff entries so I'm trying not to feel too bad about it 😅
I do like the core idea I had here, which I'd like to expand on some time, as well as the detail-oriented voice I was at least trying to go for, but... nah, this one's not it, chief. I definitely need to practice some more—it definitely shows that I haven't written much prose, and notably no microfiction, in the last few years! And also that I need to update my calendar event notifications for the original fiction rounds. That would be helpful.
I do like the core idea I had here, which I'd like to expand on some time, as well as the detail-oriented voice I was at least trying to go for, but... nah, this one's not it, chief. I definitely need to practice some more—it definitely shows that I haven't written much prose, and notably no microfiction, in the last few years! And also that I need to update my calendar event notifications for the original fiction rounds. That would be helpful.