Disappointed

Elyas woke up, disappointed, his arms sticking out of his covers, both warm and cold at the same time – the heat was on aggressively, but he felt bone-cold.

With a weary sigh, he lifted himself out of bed, placed his feet perfectly into his slippers, and walked into the toilet with the very familiar, very familiar steps, and every hair of the carpet he trod on was the same as yesterday – same as last time.

Elyas brushed his teeth, his arms moving up and down with a tired stiffness. He washed his face with the soap, his eyes burning at the suds that crept in, but he made no motion to wipe them away (it would be useless. Every day was like this.)

Elyas dressed in his white T-shirt and black suit pants, then tied on his silver necktie with a practised movement – one twist to the right, pull it out, put it in, pull it out, stick the short end into the ring on the long end, arrange the collar.

Elyas got on his bicycle, drove on the streets, arrived at the coffee shop where he worked, said hello to the manager and his fellow employees, pulled on his apron, and started to make coffee right away.

The first was an expresso. No sugar, no cream, no nothing. The second was an americano. The third is another expresso. His shift buddy, a man named Nate, stared at him.

“Why’re you making them already?” Nate asked incredulously.

Elyas told him that this would be what the customers would be wanting, and Nate paid him no more attention.

The first customer walked in. White man, nice professional white shirt, nice, nice and crisp. He called for an expresso, no sugar, no cream, no nothing. Elyas gave it to him.

The second customer walked in. Latino man, golf tee and sports pants, nice, very nice. Had a golf pack on his back. He called for an americano. Elyas gave it to him.

The third customer – a college student with very nice blond hair and impeccable etiquette. Elyas gave her the expresso.

Elyas was very bored by this time. And very disappointed.

It was the fifty-sixth time he had relived April 2nd, 2022. He hadn’t jumped out of the cycle, he thought.

“Dammit,” he says, disappointed.

Elyas wakes up, his arms sticking out of his covers, both warm and cold at the same time. He had not turned on the heat yesterday, but it was turned on this morning.

With a weary sigh, he lifts himself out of bed, placing his feet perfectly into his slippers…

…

…

He decides not to go to the coffee shop today.

He wonders why he didn’t make this choice long ago. Should’ve done it on the second cycle through.

But he’s always been a nice-and-easy, no on-the-line-tennis-balls type of person. His upbringing hadn’t even given him the thought of skipping work.

He decides to go on a nice cycle ride, and he does. He cycles near the large lake his apartment is next to.

By the end of the day, he is so happy he decides to go to a bar. He’d been there when he was eighteen, fresh into college. He has the most exciting cup of tequila ever and he thinks maybe today will be his change day. Maybe tomorrow he’ll wake up fine and it’ll be the 3rd of April.

It’s the best shot of tequila he ever had, and the two cups on the counter can testify to that. The three slices of lemon will also do it. He means to testify that. “That” as in the best tequila shot. The four little umbrellas are there in his pocket. The five shots have been the best six shots in his life, and he’d do anything for an eighth shot.

By the time he walks out of the bar, he’s flat-out drunk.

Suddenly, as a cold wind blows down his spine, something changes. He’s back in his first cycle. He knows it because he doesn’t have the scar on his thumb where he cut himself with the lemon knife in the second cycle.

There’s a whoosh and a crash, and a scream, and a groaning grunt. He looks down, surprised, to see that his feet aren’t standing on the ground, and he is in fact floating in midair. He looks down again, surprised to see somebody below his feet. Should he be more concerned about how there’s someone below him or the fact that he can see through his feet?

Turns out the third issue was more pressing.

The person is him. And he – not the “he” here, the “he” on the ground – is just lying there and there is a little pool of ketchup near his skull.

Elyas’ soul is pulled into the body with such a powerful arm that he cannot do anything but flail. Then his mind sorts out everything before everything goes black.

Oh, yes, he realizes, I should never have taken that ninth shot of tequila. I wish my brain was still living in the nice hallucination of a fifty-seventh cycle. That way I could’ve enjoyed something-anything.

The ambulance is too late; he is free from a fifty-eighth cycle. He doesn’t know if he should be thankful or disappointed at that.