Work Text:
“Time moves in one direction, memory in another”
– William Gibson
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There’s a man sitting in Charlie’s living room.
She can’t remember inviting him to do so, nor how long he’s been there, but he’s sitting there and he’s looking at her expectantly. He’s waiting for something
Maybe he’s waiting for her.
What had she been doing before she noticed him? A cool droplet of condensation rolls onto her hand and reminds Charlie of the glasses she is holding. She must’ve been standing there for a while because the ice has started to melt.
He’s seated on her couch, appearing quite comfortable despite the neat suit and clever shoes he wears.
Charlie has the ridiculous thought that, though she doesn’t know the man, that must be where he always sits.
She wasn’t sure how, but the man knows her name. He calls her over, inviting her to sit, to put the cups down.
Before the ice melts, he says.
Charlie feels silly when she realises that, of course he knows her name, he’s in her apartment after all. He must know her.
She places the cups down on the edge of the living room table, running out of room and not bothering with coasters. She think’s she’s run out of them.
Charlie asks when he arrived, how he got in, and he laughs at a joke she hasn’t told.
With the key she gave him, he reminds her, his cool blue eyes glittering with humour. Charlie doesn’t give keys to strangers though, so she asks him for his name.
In return, he light-heartedly asks if she’s feeling alright, if she’s hit her head. His laughter is dizzying. When she takes a sip from her glass, the ice in it a distant memory, she tastes nothing.
He says his name is Sam, and Charlie knows the man must be mistaken. Her Sam went missing months ago. He smiles in a way she thinks is meant to be familiar.
It’s frightening, the way her muscles react differently to that of her mind. Her body wants to run, but she can’t.
She has a guest.
The man is wearing cufflinks that aren’t his, tokens of a memory he doesn’t belong in. His suit doesn’t quite fit – nothing about him does.
Where is Sam? And why is the man sitting on the couch they’d picked out together, wearing Sam’s face?
He smiles again, abandoning his attempts at familiarity. He watches the discomfort thaw on her features, and it feels as though she is seeing him from behind thick, frosted glass.
His form is warped and distended, an optical illusion of her melting mind. He knows he isn’t Sam, and he knows she sees it too.
The man sitting on her couch says something that Charlie can’t hear over the rushing in her ears. He’s asking her a question. Her head feels heavy, her vision fogging over. For a brief moment, she can hear what he’s saying.
He’s asking how long she’ll take next time.
Charlie doesn’t know how to answer him, so she gets up to get them both a drink.