Devilled Eggs at the End of the World

Afterwards, when all the hullabaloo was over, I stepped out of the river of time because I wanted to find you and talk to you about it. You would have found Amelia bringing devilled eggs as a canapé deeply ironic after the fuss she had kicked up at Christmas; it was so deliciously enraging that I couldn’t stand that you didn’t know. But what I didn’t realise before leaving was that time wasn’t really a river at all, or at least not a river in the sense that we’re used to here—the kind that is beckoned by gravity, carving through earth towards the ocean. As it turned out, time was more of a loop, and I promptly got lost as soon as I stepped out of the flow. I had only intended to go back a little, but the loop was fast and raging like rapids, and I lost my footing.

I figured if I just hopped back in quick smart I couldn’t be too far off, but I overshot a little and found myself watching fish crawl out of the ocean onto prehistoric beaches, scales gleaming green, mouths curved in strange smiles. I supposed over the course of a few hundred million years the fish would lead to you, though I couldn’t well talk to those strange creatures about the rubberiness of the eggs. So I left and tried to remember whereabouts I had been before in the loop, but again re-entered too early, and watched a woolly mammoth get hunted across icy plains. I wondered if any of the hunters were your distant ancestors, especially as you’d always liked the cold; however, they seemed busy and I didn’t want to intrude. I did pause in that moment to watch the mammoth swing its gargantuan tusks and howl as it was speared again and again. I felt the devilled eggs shift uncomfortably in my stomach at the sound.

As I continued to jump in and out of time, I started to get better at controlling my entries into the loop. I got closer to you by thousands of years and saw Stonehenge being built—as it turns out it actually was aliens, and I watched the UFOs shoot down laser beams to pick up the stones like pebbles. You would have loved that, and I added that to my list of things to tell you. I watched Palawa elders paint ochre onto cave walls, and I watched the final brick being placed in Angkor Wat. I was at the Battle of the Somme where I held a young boy’s shaking hand in the icy mud as he bled into sludge and gunpowder. I told the boy about the time loop, and about how even though he was dying he was also at that very same moment alive and happy, blowing out a birthday candle, or laughing with his friends, or hugging his mother. After he died, I stepped out of time and tried my hardest not to think about anything at all.

Getting closer, I started to only just miss you—I would arrive in cafes shortly after you left, sit through a film at your favourite cinema that you would see a day later. One time in a restaurant I caught a glimpse of your frizzy hair as you stormed out; I tried to follow, but I already knew I had dropped in right after your first boyfriend had broken up with you, and rather than accepting it, you had sprinted away. You had always been a fantastic runner and continued to be well into your seventies. After a couple of near misses, I started to wonder if you were evading me—it would be just like you to keep me chasing you through the folds of history. For most of our life together you strode through existence, with me trailing behind. I wanted to find you in one of your good times, at a moment that would work for your busy schedule. After some navigating I managed to drop onto our sunny verandah, where I imagined we’d be having coffee and doing the crossword, but as per usual I arrived too late and found only overgrown weeds and animal droppings. I also dropped into your best friend’s house; she was startled, as I was a bit too early and she hadn’t actually met you yet, but we had a cup of tea and talked about the football. I told her a little bit about you and she was as polite as she could be.

One time when I re-entered the loop I overshot too far and saw the end of everything, long after humans were gone. I sat on the beach with the bioluminescent algae and watched the stars explode like raindrops on a skylight. As they smeared the horizon, I thought about the only time we went camping together, when we were in our thirties. We were both so inept at being outdoors that we set our tent on fire, and after frantically stamping out the flames we had to huddle up together underneath the constellations, shivering until sunrise. I thought about your tired eyes and lopsided grin beneath the morning glow, and I felt all the places where you weren’t so sharply that it took my breath away. Where was it all supposed to go? I asked the algae. It looked back in glistening silence.

And at last, I found you. It was where I probably should have known you’d be, on your bench, looking out over the cliffs. It was a sunny winter day. You were facing away from me, and I started towards you, but then stopped. You had your coat on, and the wind ruffled your hair. You were so quiet, and I couldn’t see your face. I felt the devilled eggs in my stomach. It was a beautiful clear day over the ocean, and I wondered if you could see any whales. I hoped so. I love you. I remember you.