Café Causality

Writer's Cramp Entry 7/11



The napkin was used. Not gently, but aggressively. Wrung through a monster's hand and dragged through a foul pond of food sludge.

"Oh," I said.

"You asked for a napkin."

"Perhaps I should have specified." I took a closer look, tempted to use my knife to dig into some of the more complex substances. "I prefer my napkins unused or, at the very least, reminiscent of unused. Good heavens, where did you even find this? I don't believe I've ever seen such an assortment of unpleasant food stuffs—please tell me these are food stuffs—all crammed on one unfortunate piece of fabric."

The waiter mumbled a few meaningless syllables and then thrust the offending napkin onto my lap. I had only my quick reflexes to thank for avoiding calamitous impact with my white skirt.

Unfortunately, my catlike moves left me in a precarious position with my chair. I teetered for a few milliseconds before toppling over in an undignified heap.

I was ready to give the waiter a large piece of my mind, but when I looked up, he was gone. Everyone else in the café tried poorly to conceal their amusement. I ignored them. Peasants, every last one. It wasn't lost on me that, out of a whole room of diners, not a single patron could be bothered to help a lady up.

So I helped myself up. Not the first time; surely wouldn't be the last.

Unhindered by the waiter's presence, I now succumbed to temptation, using both my knife and fork to pick at the napkin, which was now splayed out on the café floor. What can I say? I've always been a curious thing. Mother said it would be the death of me, but now she's dead, so I ceased seeing much use in taking her acerbic words of warning to heart.

I felt rather like an archaeologist of old. The layers of grime defied logic, yellowing crust hiding goopier sublayers. I thought I spied a piece of asparagus, but it was hard to tell.

And then I saw it. Unobtrusive, the envelope corner poked out from under the napkin. Curious.

I spent a good deal more time than I'd like to admit coordinating my knife and fork to pluck the note out. I had never been very adept at using chopsticks, and this further embarrassment only confirmed my subpar hand-eye coordination.

Once up and out, I deposited the envelope on the table. Gingerly, I picked it open.

"It's for me," I said aloud, even though I'm not usually one for talking to myself. I was just surprised. In curly blue script across the top of the letter, my name: Mackenzie Kant. Curiouser.

Though, really, what had I expected? The letter came hand-delivered in my grimy napkin.

"Sorry, I'm late," I read, moving my lips over the words without actually uttering them aloud. "Delayed. Fighting, wardrobe malfunction, wormholes, etc. The usual."

I paused. It was true someone of my acquaintance was late, but her name was Carolyn Avery—and Carolyn wouldn't let a wardrobe malfunction get in the way of being punctual. She also wasn't one for fighting. Or wormholes, for that matter.

I continued reading the letter: "No, this isn't Carolyn, if that's what you're thinking. (Which I know you were.)"

Interesting.

"Carolyn's not coming because I drugged her. Stop judging. She'll be fine by morning. I needed time to talk, just you and I. I'll be there shortly. Don't touch the napkin—it's important. The waiter's not. I drugged him, too. Goodness, maybe I do have a problem. But not the sleep drugs, the brainwash-y ones, you know? You'll know. Anyway, sit tight. I'm almost there."

Curiousest?

I was in the middle of working myself up to an acutely vexed state when she sat down across from me. She looked disturbingly familiar.

"Hello, Mackenzie. Try not to panic."

I tried.

"Look, there's a simple explanation for all of this," the woman said. "I'm rather stuck. Here, in this year. And I need your assistance."

She flashed me a quick smile. I flashed her a scowl.

"This is a reality I am hesitant to accept," I said, attempting to inject an air of haughty nonchalance into my voice.

"Well, that's the charming thing about reality," the woman shot back. "It doesn't require your acceptance."

Fantastic. The reality: The woman in front of me was me. She looked like me. She talked like me. And I did not like her.

"So now what?" I asked, perturbed. I had a matinee to make in an hour, with or without a drugged Carolyn. And I wasn't about to let some... some science fiction nonsense interrupt my plans.

"We take that—"she pointed at the napkin—"to my time machine. It's drenched in time machine fuel. And food, from the last few centuries, but mostly fuel."

I am worried about my matinee.

"Are you in?" she asked.

"In what?"

She sighed, with exaggerated drama. Do I look like that when I sigh? How unbecoming.

"I'll make this easy for you," she said. "I remember all this. Sitting here, falling off my chair, poking the napkin. Meeting me. This all already happened, so be a good me and help me."

I checked my watch. I was most definitely not going to make my matinee.

"Fine," I said. "I just hope you know how thoroughly dissatisfied I am about this series of events."

She winked. "Oh, I know. But it'll pass."





Word count: 912