Birch loved manipulating time.
He was a quantum physicist and looked for every possible way to manipulate time. He was a supreme multi-tasker but also an avid practitioner of Zen meditation. His ultimate goal was to chronicle and master those moments where a pleasurable thing or a frightening sequence of events are perceived in a flash of motion and compression of time, rather than the actual length in which it occurred. The same was true for the opposite, of course. Tedious tasks sometimes seemed to take twice the time passed on the clock, and Birch wanted to master this phenomenon as well.
He believed it was all a matter of perception. If one could master this altered perception of passing time, then one could master the altering of time within his or her reality. Time could be shortened or extended at will.
This quest to explore new ways of manipulating time led him to speed dating.
Speed dating was a compression of weeks, perhaps months or years, of dinners, drinks, and conversations into one four-hour block of time. The rapidity of the chats, the chiming of the bell signaling the moment to switch tables, and the perception-skewing effects of the alcohol all combined to make four hours feel like two.
"Uh oh," a woman said.
Birch looked up. The signal bell rang. An attractive woman in a blue dress stood at the other side of his table. She had piercing blue eyes and was the first forty-something woman he'd met who could pull off wearing lip gloss.
"Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm still dry."
He stood up, not knowing what she meant, and wanting to introduce himself before the conversation went further off the rails. His abdomen bumped the table as he stood. The shake knocked over his drink, spilling it across the table.
"I'm so sorry," he said, reaching for his napkin.
"I've had worse," she said. "The guy at table four belched and then wiped his nose with his hand as I sat down."
"Heck of a way to introduce myself, huh?"
"Like the tree?" She asked, trying to confirm her suspicion.
The question threw him for a moment, but he saw her name tag, which read "Clara," and remembered he had one, too.
"Birch. Yes, like the tree. My Dad was a forester."
"I must be."
He wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question.
"You must be Clara," he said, answering her, he had decided, playful question.
"I do a lot of research," she said, cutting off his next question. "So I don't have a lot of time to date. Why are you here?"
"The same thing."
"Really? Me too," she said, cutting him off again.
"Yes. I'm a quantum physicist, and I must admit I'm using this as part of a research project."
"What are the odds of that? Two quantum physicists at the same speed dating night, let alone the same table."
"You're a quantum physicist?"
"Time, mostly," she said. "Did you know Aboriginal Australians have no words for 'past' or 'future' in their native language?"
The slight change in topic left him bewildered for a few seconds. "Yes. They say that their shamans study methods of time travel via meditation."
"Yes. I did several years of study in the Outback."
"You've met some of the shamans?"
"They weren't sure what to make of me at first. A white woman wanting to learn their meditation methods. After a year or so, they figured I was serious."
"What did you learn from them?"
"I didn't believe it until I saw it. I was in meditation. The shaman was guiding me from across the fire. His voice was this floating song. Then it was everywhere, surrounding me and amplified six times. I felt this weird shift, like I was in freefall. I got scared. My eyes popped open, and there he was. All seven of him."
"Seven?"
"He told me it was normal to be frightened the first time, and that he could teach me to bridge the gap."
"Wait." Birch leaned forward. "Did you say there were seven of him? They weren't other shamans?"
"It took me another year to bridge the gap and then another six months to access the other bridges."
Birch wasn't sure what to say. He thought maybe he'd missed something, or she was a complete loon.
"Have I jumped ahead?" She asked. "I'm sorry."
"No, no," Birch said. "I think I got lost there somewhere."
"Sometimes I shift when I get excited. You're a cutie, after all, so I think you got me jumping."
"Thanks," he said, becoming surer by the moment that she was out of her mind.
She looked right. "Oh, there's the bell."
It hadn't sounded. He was about to tell her this when she stood up and extended her hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Birch." She gave him a business card. "Call me. I think we could have fun together."
The bell rang. He stood up, dumbfounded by the whole scenario. He barely managed to get the card from her hand before she turned away. He wasn't good for conversation the rest of the night.
Birch called her the next night.
"See you soon," she said upon answering.
"Clara?" He asked. "Is that you?"
"I can be there in about half an hour."
"Really?" The boldness of her offer surprised him. "You don't mess around do you?"
"Are you doing anything tonight?"
"No, that's why I called. I was thinking coffee and a longer talk than three minutes, but we can do that here."
"You get me excited, Birch. I don't know if it's the cute factor you have or the quantum physics or something else, but I see you and me fucking in the near future."
He swallowed. "I hope that prediction comes true."
"I've been thinking of you a lot, too."
"So it seems," he said. "I felt a neat connection yesterday."
"I'm glad you called. I've been hip-deep in my research notes from my Australian studies." Her tone had gone from sultry to studious. "I need the break."
"Would you like to take a break here at my place?"
"Hey, yeah Birch. How are you?"
She said it like the conversation had just started. Was she playing with him? Did she have a memory problem? She had been a bit odd during their speed date, but that was part of her charm. Maybe he'd misheard her. He was excited over the thought of sex with her, and his mind had been racing ahead to plans for the night, so he might not have been paying attention.
"I'm great," he said. "I'm looking forward to seeing you tonight."
"Hello?" She said.
"I'm here," he said. "Can you hear me?"
The dial tone buzzed in his ear. Had she hung up? Did the signal drop out? Why would she hang up on him after such a tantalizing call? Was it part of the tease or was she just fucked in the head?
He replayed the conversation in his mind, now wondering if she was going to show up or not. He decided to tidy his apartment in case she did come over. He remembered the Bears game was in progress so he turned on the TV to listen while he worked. He enjoyed football, loving the fact that clock management, and thus time, was so important. The first thing he heard on the broadcast was "...and the Bears jump ahead by a field goal."
He stopped in the middle of the living room as if he'd run into an invisible wall.
"Jumped ahead," he said. "She jumps when she's excited."
The football broadcast returned. "Green Bay has fallen behind thanks to the Bears' field goal..."
"Ahead and behind," he said. His fingers twitched as his mind rearranged conversations. "She was backwards. She was backwards on the phone. She was ahead at the speed date. She's back and forth in time."
He rushed to the phone. He needed to call and confirm his hypothesis.
She walked out of his bedroom. She was buck naked and smelled of sex. He stood frozen, phone in hand, as she walked past without acknowledging him. She poured herself a glass of water from his kitchen sink and then walked back into the bedroom.
He chased after her. The bedroom was empty. The bed was still made. The sex scent was faint. He checked the closet. Empty. He checked under the bed. Dusty.
He backed out of the bedroom, shaking with fear.
"This is a great view," she said.
His head snapped right. She was nowhere to be seen. He was certain he'd heard her voice. He went to the balcony since she'd mentioned the view. Empty. There was no scent of sex.
Someone turned on his shower. He heard the water falling in the tub. He ran for the bathroom, knowing he was losing his mind but somehow not afraid of that fact. He yanked the bathroom door open. The room was dark. There was no running water. The tub was dry.
The intercom buzzed. He ran for it, wanting to hear a real voice.
"Who is it?" He asked.
"It's Clara."
"Really?"
