He went to every place they had been together, hoping to find the crossing into that other universe. Looking for signs, patterns, repetition, hoping in his heart of hearts that that the portal, the means of crossing to the other side of the brook, would be there. For a short while, the wound between universes had appeared to be in a spot-- hovering, a slow pulsation-- a short distance above his bed. The vision soon faded, eroded by too much moonlight.
The ducks in the toxic water gave him no direction. No point of access in the mirrored surface, wreathed in the scent of warm wildflowers, nor did the drone of cicadas give way to a thin veil of static to be drawn aside. The Thai restaurant required a reservation, and so he could not get inside for some time.
When he did, he ordered his food, same as the first time, looking around the bar as he did so. Nothing. It occurred to him that the three drinks might be the key-- and though he'd transitioned into sobriety at this point, he tried anyway-- alas. All he had left was the coffee shop, which didn't seem as promising, and the back-yard tiny house rental. The loft bed. Feet on the wooden ceiling (oh, you've got the darkest eyes); but he dared not break in.
Spacetime was his prison. That old feeling of paralysis.
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