Page 1 of Time Loops & Meet Cutes
part oneGirl Meets Boy
1Noelle
Sometimes I feel like a poorly planned design project, the sort cobbled together by engineering students pulling an all-nighter, possibly held in place by the miracle of duct tape. It might work under very specific conditions, but it could be knocked over by a stiff breeze.
Except in my case, I’m held together by routine and caffeine. Although I might seem calm on the outside, I have a sneaking suspicion that I can’t deal with anything approaching an emergency, or even a minor surprise.
I take another sip of my tea and stare at the computer. I should do some work so I can get out of the office at a half-decent time, rather than ruminating on the state of my life.
“Last one here again?” Fernando asks as he heads to the door at six.
I paste on a smile. “Yep. Just want to get this proposal finished.” Then I’ll read through it over the weekend, and it’ll be ready to go out on Monday.
“Don’t stay too late. It’s Friday, after all.”
“I’ll be done soon.”
That’s a lie. I’ve got at least another hour of work to do on this proposal, since Tyler did a piss-poor job. That man is the bane of my existence. I was supposed to just look over hiswork, but I’ve had to rewrite much of what I’ve read so far. As usual.
I reach the “Cost” section and find only blank space under the heading. Since I’m alone in the office, I release a little howl of frustration, then get on with what I do best: keeping my head down and doing the work. It’ll pay off eventually.
Tyler waltzed out of here at four thirty, but I don’t leave Woods & Olson Engineering until after seven. As I pack up my laptop and lock the door behind me, I realize I haven’t eaten since lunch. I stuff my hand into my bag and come up with two mints and a granola bar wrapper that I forgot to throw in the trash. Hmph. The Jamaican patty place near the office is closed, and I don’t feel like delaying my trip home any longer—I want to put on my pajamas and turn on the TV—so I head to the nearest TTC station and get on the subway.
My stomach, however, keeps growling, which I don’t understand. It’s used to me forgetting to eat, and it’s usually better behaved than this. But today, I’m so hungry I can barely pay attention to a podcast. I take out my earbuds with a sigh. My usual routine is to go right home after work, but maybe I can do something different for once. There’s a night market this weekend, not far from the station before mine—I saw signs for it earlier. Yes, I’ll do something fun on a Friday for once. By myself, but still.
Unfortunately, the thought of what food I might find there makes my stomach growl even louder, but at least I have a plan.
My friend Veronica—I really should text her—used to talk about the night markets she’d visited on her trips to Seoul and Singapore, but I’ve never left North America. This market in the north part of Toronto won’t be like those, but surely they’ll have something good.
When I get to Mel Lastman Square, the place is crowdedwith booths and people and mouthwatering fragrances. The first booth I examine is selling upscale bánh mì for prices that make me clutch my wallet. The second has a selection of ube treats, the purple hue particularly tempting, but I need something other than sugar. I get jostled while trying to read the menu for the third booth, which has a long line—too long for my hungry stomach.
Before I turn up the next row, I see someone wearing a Pocky box costume, then a young man and woman feeding each other satay sticks. She holds one up to his mouth, and he nibbles off a piece of meat before she tries it herself. A young kid bumps into her, but she doesn’t notice. They’re off in their little love bubble.
I roll my eyes and continue. I see booths selling noodles, samosas, mochi… all with several people out front. Then I come to a booth that has no customers and no sign. There’s only one woman working here, and she looks old enough to be my grandmother. On a piece of white printer paper, a menu is scribbled in blue ballpoint pen.
Dumplings: $5
No explanation of what kind of dumplings are on offer. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the businesses here, which all have nice, clear signage. But dumplings do sound good, there’s no line, and it’s not expensive, though how many I’ll get for the price, I don’t know. I step closer to the booth, and the woman says something to me in Mandarin, I think.
Before I can explain that I don’t speak it, she switches to English. “You want dumplings? They give you what you need most.”
Well, what I need most is food to ease my hunger, so yes, they should do the trick.
“What kind?” I ask.
“Anything you don’t eat?”
I shake my head.
“I choose for you.” She taps her temple before pointing to a sheet of paper that says “Cash Only.”
That’s probably another reason the booth isn’t busy: a lot of people don’t carry cash anymore, but I always do. I pull out some money and hand it over.
“You come back in fifteen minutes, yes?”
My eyes widen. Fifteen minutes might as well be an hour to my stomach. There are boiled dumplings in a metal tray—why can’t I have some of those?
“You don’t need to cook them fresh,” I say.
