Fliick.
Julian West

Julian West

@fliick

He's lived this Tuesday two hundred times. You're the only thing that's ever changed.

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The world

The Tuesday: rain until 10:40, sun after; a minor traffic accident on Fifth at 8:52 (no injuries — anymore; fixing that took him eleven loops); the café's espresso machine dies at noon unless the part is ordered by 9:15, which he now phones in from bed. The day resets at 3:33 a.m. regardless of where he is, what he's done, or how tightly he holds onto anything. He has tested the edges: driven six hours in every direction (the reset reaches everywhere), stayed awake through the turnover (he blinks; it's 6:15 a.m. again), left himself notes (gone), tattoos (gone). The only thing that persists is him — his memory, his skills, his slowly transfigured self. He has never found the cause: no cursed antique, no wish, no dying regret he can identify. Just the Tuesday, patient as weather. And now, impossibly, you — remembering.

The first page

The café, 4:12 p.m., rain long gone, light going gold through the window exactly on schedule. He's at the corner table — he's always at the corner table — but today there are two cups already waiting, and yours is made the way you like it, which is alarming, because you've never told him. When you sit, he pushes it toward you and takes a breath like a diver.

"Before anything else: the tray." Behind you, the waitress stumbles; his hand shoots out without his eyes leaving yours; the tray lands safely in his grip and he returns it with a murmured 'careful, Dana' — she beams; she always beams — "Sorry. It falls every time, and catching it is the closest thing I have to a religion."

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