He wouldn't have noticed her, but for her hair. Her hair had a very distinct smell, like lemons and strawberries and cheese and a lot of everything that could smell as nice. He looked up, and found her staring at him very intently, and at the desk he was in the process of so convincingly destroying.
“Erm, dear, what in fuck’s name are you doing? And why does it have to involve murdering my antique mahogany desk? You know we love that desk, don't you?” she asked him, very patiently.
“We do? No, I mean, of course we do. But don't worry about the desk, antiques are a thing of the past now.” he mumbled, and continued writing on the desk with what looked a lot like her purple permanent marker. She was very slightly glad he didn't use the fluorescent green, but that wasn't quite helping the desk, not with the purple epsilons scribbled across the aged mahogany.
She decided she would wait for him to finish - the desk was quite beyond saving anyhow, and she was sure she didn't love the desk as much as she thought she did - she struck a match against the hard granite wall, and as the flame flickers, slowly brings it to the cigarette dangling between her lips.
He noticed another smell interfering with all the lemons and the strawberries and the camembert, so he held his breath until the longing should pass. He had promised himself he wouldn't smoke for eight months, and at eight weeks, he was still going strong. “Are we nearly done yet?” she asked, crushing the last few drags into an ashtray. “I hope so, though I have a feeling that e might not be as close to c-squared as I would have liked.” he was mumbling again, but she couldn't hold back the temptation, “Good god, what do we do?” “I suppose we'll just have to ask Einstein.”
She smiled at him, a soft smile twisted at one end, the kind he liked to keep looking at, and want to stop completely and utterly ruining the desk, maybe. He had convinced himself that this smile was utterly and completely his own, and he was right. She gave this smile to no one else but him.
“And we could get you another desk, yes, what period is this? Looks like late Victorian, though I wouldn't trust myself. Wish you could come along and pick one out. Although hauling it through time and space is going to be an absolute bitch, especially those parts with space.” he might have been talking to that desk, but she knew he was saying he would be gone again, and that he should be back in time for dinner if he knew what's good for him, and he could bring another absolutely horrid desk with him if he felt like the trouble. He's never had any taste for fine furniture.
A moment later, and he wasn't there. Technically, he wasn't quite then either, but that's the thing about time-travel, you can never belong. Not to time, nor space. You just find a person to hold onto you in the present, so that you can always find your way back. The time-traveler's fail-safe smiled softly.
By:
Sarthak Prakash
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