Rantings of an Arranged Mind

My head was full of philosophical thoughts on cosmology. What were the laws governing my world? My training as a lawyer didn’t quite apply. I couldn’t sort out whether the future, which I had foreknowledge of, was changeable. The fact that I knew about it made it seem immutable, because I couldn’t have knowledge of something that didn’t in fact exist.

Thinking like this made my head hurt. I broke it down to a simpler problem. Calla from the future had told me I was going to die, but that she loved me. Here and now, Calla and I were casually dating and still getting to know each other. The journey from here to there seemed worthwhile. Did I want to risk disrupting that?

I decided to buy her the sweater, despite any possible protests. My parents had led fairly shallow lives, and my mother’s last advice had been to learn from their mistakes. I had never seen passion like future-Calla’s in my parents, nor in anyone I’d ever met. She risked altering the fabric of time to save my life. That’s dedication. That deserved a sweater, at the very least.

“It fits,” present-Calla said, coming out of the change room.

She was wearing the low-cut violet sweater, identical to her future counterpart. She had longer hair and different pants, but the effect was startling. I felt my heart skip – I enjoyed the present day Calla’s company enormously, but it was a tentative relationship. Hesitant. The time-travelling rescuer had filled the moments where we met with shock and romance and confusion and adventure. The idea of her affected my blood pressure.

“Wow. That’s really effective,” Bianca said, voicing some of the thoughts in my head. “I like it.”

“Really?” Calla asked, looking at herself in a mirror on the wall.

“It’s great. Let’s get it and go.” Bianca moved towards the counter with her selections.

“I don’t know,” Calla said, still looking in the mirror.

“It suits you. I like it also,” I told her. “I mean, sure, it’s not your usual colours. But it looks nice, and variety never hurts.”

She shrugged a little, wrinkling her nose as she stared at her mirror image.

“But if you don’t like it… I mean, if there’s a reason you’re hesitating… I know that you’re still dealing with grief…” I stammered a bit, not knowing how comfortable she would be with me referencing her parents’ deaths. She didn’t talk about it in public.

Calla looked at me. Then she started giggling.

“That’s not why I dress the way I do!”

I wrinkled my brow. “Then can I ask why?”

Calla blushed and beckoned me to come closer with a finger. I looked around the store, as if there might be too many people or something. It was just us, Bianca and the saleswoman. Nevertheless, I tiptoed over.

“Come closer,” she whispered as I stood about a foot away from her.

I stepped forward until our toes were almost touching, and then I leaned down so she could whisper in my ear. I felt almost giddy. Her warm, feminine scent assailed my nostrils with its delicate aroma, floral but not overly so. Her cheek brushed mine. For some reason, this was almost as intimate as kissing, and made me almost as giddy as high school.

I supposed that some of the impact was the increase in my heart rate at seeing present-Calla dressing like future-Calla; the resulting blended style put my “two” favourite people in front of me at the same time. Time-travel is some confusing shit.

I felt her lips brush my ear as she whispered to me.

“It’s a little embarrassing.”

“What is?” I whispered back.

“The reason I wear monochrome clothing.”

“And that is?” I asked, curious.

“Well… I’m colour blind.”

“Really?”

I stood up a bit, looking at her in surprise. It was the last thing I had expected and I wasn’t sure if she was kidding. However, she nodded, almost shyly, and shrugged her shoulders nervously.

“What about all that talk about Bianca’s paintings?”

“I don’t see them the way normal people do, so of course I like her black-and-white photography better. However, I remember seeing in colour, so sometimes I can make educated guesses.”

“You weren’t always colour blind?” I asked.