"That's grandma." he croaked. "She always cooks on Sundays."
Jonas Richard stood across from an ageless face with freckles identical to his own. The wide set nose, dark and thick lips covered with a smattering of coarse hair, and round brown eyes made the stranger's face a perfect replica. His chin dropped to his chest. Seconds ago, he stood in his tiny lab and pushed the rewind button on an ancient cassette player. He, now, stood in a recreation of his own garage, but the noon day light did not stream through the cracked window above his cluttered workstation. His favorite wrench was replaced with an older model with a worn yellow handle. A navy toolbox with rounded corners and sloping lid stood ajar and a cigar poked out from the opening.
The window's-streaked pane held an indistinguishable garage with two short, round chested men staring at each other. One stood with his hand wrapped around a compact disc player, the other sat rubbing his temple on a low iron stool. The garage door, rolled to the ceiling, revealed the same scene. Another Jonas dressed in wide leg pants and flowing shirt, stood fiddling with the 8-track player slung across his chest by a tattered gray strap. Every door—every exit—was an endless loop of the peculiar encounter.
Each iteration was dressed in garments of eras past. The appliances of their garage were packed with artifacts rendered obsolete by modernity.
"That's you." And that's you. And that's you." said Absolut. "You always end up right here and you never go back. You can't move past this moment."
"How?" Jonas asked.
"The how," Absolut smiled. "Is never important. The 'why' should concern you more. I did the same work. Took the same steps. Visited the same days—scenes—over and over and over; and without fail, I end up...you end up here."
"I just wanted to see her—my grandma, I mean." Jonas breathed.
"I know."
Absolut crossed to the screen door behind Jonas. He carefully peeled it open and nodded inside. Jonas tipped over to him.
"She's in there." Absolut said wistfully. "Like always, she's throwing down."
Jonas looked at the parallel scenario unfolding beyond the threshold of the garage door. He pointed at that iteration of himself.
"What about them?" Jonas saw the iteration pointing back at him.
"Them?" Absolut leaned his head against the door. "They are us. In every decade, in every lifetime, I end up here; and I always make the same choice—ask the same questions—work the same problems until..."
"Until what?" Jonas pressed.
"Until I sit on that stool and wait for the next stupid, nostalgic Jonas to blink into my garage. I sit here and wait to talk him through what's next. He is you. You are me. And I...am."
"How lang have I been here?" Jonas asked.
"A couple minutes. A few days. A lifetime. It's hard to say. My device is in here somewhere. My clothes are remarkably plain. Maybe I'm the original." Absolut popped his head up. "Does that answer your question?"
"No." Jonas said. "Why not go in?"
Absolut's forlorn gaze was transfixed upon the silver haired woman shuffling around her sunlit kitchen as steam curled into the golden light from large bespeckled pots. A white apron tied around the waist of her chiffon dress and a ribbon of shining pearls around her neck, she hummed. Her warm tune resounded through the thin wooden walls and pulled on Jonas' heart.
"I can't." Absolut said. "I think we know going in there would have catastrophic consequences to our timelines, but you want one more hug. One more laugh. One more day as things were before life got difficult and I became the adult we are trying to be, but what happens next—for her—as destined. It cannot be changed."
"My indecision created his place—this facet." Jonas surmised. "I'm stuck."
"That you are. The facets are a prison of your own making—free to leave whenever I decide to undo the design of a maker far more cunning that I ever will be."
A tight smile stretched begrudgingly, below Absolut's wrinkled nose and they stood in silence. The two of them peered in at their matriarch as she dipped a ladle into a glass pitcher of dark liquid and smiled.
"What now?" Jonas asked. "I mean, there must be a way back. I—I didn't invent a time machine to just sit here. This isn't my hell. It's yours!"
"Mine or yours. Cassette player, compact disc player, boombox, or mp3 player, I always end up here, Jonas. The only way out is through this door." Absolut explained. "And I don't think I can relive this."
Jonas moved to the window above Absolut's tidy workstation. His name was written in crooked letters across a piece of silver duct tape which lay off center under the windowsill. Jonas peered through the window at the mirror image of himself clad in a tall white tee and headband. He and his reflection moved in perfect synchronization and the image made him squirm.
"There must be something I haven't thought of! There must be something I can do!" Jonas moaned.
An eerie quiet pressed on his ears and he whirled around to the empty garage. He was alone. The screen door, where Absolut stood, swayed gently as the door pressed closed and Jonas sat down hard on the stool. He unclipped the belt around his waist and set the cassette player down on the prickly wooden tabletop. Jonas laced his fingers together and listened to her angelic hums wafting in from beyond the screen door. The savory smell of a home cooked meal teased him as the smell congregated under his running nose.
Suddenly, the garage brightened. A stale wind moved the fabric of his denim jacket, and he squeezed his watering eyes shut against the flickering overhead bulb. When the light quelled, Jonas looked up and into a pair of bright, brown eyes wearing his own freckles—wrinkling his own nose—and the corners of his full smiling lips turning downward as he took in the scene. Clad in a brown tank top, baggy corduroy pants, and thick white sneakers, he popped his cordless white headphones from his ears.
He paused the song on his sleek phone with a touch of the screen and looked up at the stolid figure on the stool.
"Is that..." Jonas said.
"That's grandma." Absolut laughed. "She always cooks on Sundays."
the end.