bound to begin very soon, and I didn’t want to somehow interfere with that by warning her about it.
During her fifteenth visit, that concern became moot. After traveling more than fifty years into the past to steal someone’s taxi, we returned to my apartment. I made a joke about her looking exhausted after such a hard day’s work, and she laughed. Then she said, “You try jumping back a total of a hundred and forty years, and tell me it wouldn’t wipe you out.”
I didn’t laugh. Penelope gasped.
“Oh, shit,” she said. “This is when you find out, isn’t it?”
only saw Penelope—Young Penelope—twice after that. Things between us ended very badly. So much so, in fact, that I had a great deal of difficulty reconciling it with how well her older version got along with me.
Our penultimate encounter happened on a cold December afternoon, just before sunset. I was walking home from a quick trip to the store when she accosted me on the sidewalk, as was her way. For two years, the only way I had ever seen her was by her own initiative. Given that I viewed her less a friend than a co-conspirator, it always seemed appropriate to me that we had no normal social interaction. We never exchanged phone numbers or emails. None of my other friends had any idea she existed. I certainly had no idea where she lived. All of this seemed entirely reasonable to me, in a bizarre, adolescent, fantasy-of-being-in-a-spy-movie way. The obvious, true explanation for all of this evaded me through sheer willful self-misdirection. I was now furious with myself, not only for being so naïve in the first place, but for allowing it to continue as long as it did.
That day, I heard her voice from behind me. “Hey, Nigel,” she said. I looked over my shoulder without returning the greeting, but did pause long enough for her to catch up to me. “What are you up to?” she asked, with rehearsed innocence.
“How old are you?” I asked her. If this non sequitur fazed her, she showed no sign. Instead, she gave me a coy, mysterious smile.
“How old do you think I am?”
We had played this game before, but not for a long time now. I learned early on that questions about her background were pointless. In two years she hadn’t even given me her real name. Her question was meaningless bait.
“Eighteen,” I said.
Her smile faded. This was not going to be a game. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s right.”
The revelation so quickly given was unexpected, but I forged on. “What year were you born?”
She frowned. “Do the math. I just told you—”
“You’re eighteen. Got it. What year were you born?”
The pause that followed was painfully silent, and couldn’t have been anywhere near as long as it felt. “2070,” she said quietly.
I laughed. “You can’t even pretend to answer that naturally, can you? Two years to rehearse that answer, and you still flubbed it.” We had stopped walking at that point. Penelope’s smile was gone, and she wasn’t making eye contact. “What year were you born?”
“I said—”
“I heard you. What year were you born?”
This pause was longer, and quite a bit more painful. Her older self told me she had traveled a hundred and forty years into the past when for me it had been a little more than fifty. That left at least eighty years, minus the twenty-something years old she appeared to be at the time. Rounding, I guessed, “2150?”
“That’s… close enough,” she said quietly.
Hearing her admission out loud was far less satisfying than I expected. And far more troubling.
“Plus 18 makes 2168,” I said. “I’m a hundred years old in your time. Am I still alive?” I meant it as a dig, but its impact as a real question hit me once it was out of my mouth, and I braced myself for the answer.
“Um,” she said. “It’s kind of…” She trailed off, and while I mentally juggled all the reasons she might not be able to answer that question truthfully, she said, “Yeah.
During her fifteenth visit, that concern became moot. After traveling more than fifty years into the past to steal someone’s taxi, we returned to my apartment. I made a joke about her looking exhausted after such a hard day’s work, and she laughed. Then she said, “You try jumping back a total of a hundred and forty years, and tell me it wouldn’t wipe you out.”
I didn’t laugh. Penelope gasped.
“Oh, shit,” she said. “This is when you find out, isn’t it?”
only saw Penelope—Young Penelope—twice after that. Things between us ended very badly. So much so, in fact, that I had a great deal of difficulty reconciling it with how well her older version got along with me.
Our penultimate encounter happened on a cold December afternoon, just before sunset. I was walking home from a quick trip to the store when she accosted me on the sidewalk, as was her way. For two years, the only way I had ever seen her was by her own initiative. Given that I viewed her less a friend than a co-conspirator, it always seemed appropriate to me that we had no normal social interaction. We never exchanged phone numbers or emails. None of my other friends had any idea she existed. I certainly had no idea where she lived. All of this seemed entirely reasonable to me, in a bizarre, adolescent, fantasy-of-being-in-a-spy-movie way. The obvious, true explanation for all of this evaded me through sheer willful self-misdirection. I was now furious with myself, not only for being so naïve in the first place, but for allowing it to continue as long as it did.
That day, I heard her voice from behind me. “Hey, Nigel,” she said. I looked over my shoulder without returning the greeting, but did pause long enough for her to catch up to me. “What are you up to?” she asked, with rehearsed innocence.
“How old are you?” I asked her. If this non sequitur fazed her, she showed no sign. Instead, she gave me a coy, mysterious smile.
“How old do you think I am?”
We had played this game before, but not for a long time now. I learned early on that questions about her background were pointless. In two years she hadn’t even given me her real name. Her question was meaningless bait.
“Eighteen,” I said.
Her smile faded. This was not going to be a game. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s right.”
The revelation so quickly given was unexpected, but I forged on. “What year were you born?”
She frowned. “Do the math. I just told you—”
“You’re eighteen. Got it. What year were you born?”
The pause that followed was painfully silent, and couldn’t have been anywhere near as long as it felt. “2070,” she said quietly.
I laughed. “You can’t even pretend to answer that naturally, can you? Two years to rehearse that answer, and you still flubbed it.” We had stopped walking at that point. Penelope’s smile was gone, and she wasn’t making eye contact. “What year were you born?”
“I said—”
“I heard you. What year were you born?”
This pause was longer, and quite a bit more painful. Her older self told me she had traveled a hundred and forty years into the past when for me it had been a little more than fifty. That left at least eighty years, minus the twenty-something years old she appeared to be at the time. Rounding, I guessed, “2150?”
“That’s… close enough,” she said quietly.
Hearing her admission out loud was far less satisfying than I expected. And far more troubling.
“Plus 18 makes 2168,” I said. “I’m a hundred years old in your time. Am I still alive?” I meant it as a dig, but its impact as a real question hit me once it was out of my mouth, and I braced myself for the answer.
“Um,” she said. “It’s kind of…” She trailed off, and while I mentally juggled all the reasons she might not be able to answer that question truthfully, she said, “Yeah.
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