This Time Tomorrow

by Emma Straub

Alice wondered if no one ever felt as old as they were because it happened so slowly, and you were only ever one day slower and creakier, and the world changed so gradually that by the time cars had evolved from boxy to smooth, or green taxis had joined yellow ones, or MetroCards had replaced tokens, you were used to it. Everyone was a lobster in the pot.

Maybe that was the trick to life: to notice all the tiny moments in the day when everything else fell away and, for a split second, or maybe even a few seconds, you had no worries, only pleasure, only appreciation of what was right in front of you. Transcendental meditation, maybe, but with hot dogs and the knowledge that everything would change, the good and the bad, and so you might as well appreciate the good.

About Time

Most of Alice’s friendships now felt like they were virtual, like the pen pals of her youth. It was so easy to go years without seeing someone in person, to keep up to date just through the pictures they posted of their dog or their baby or their lunch. There was never this—a day spent floating from one thing to another. This was how Alice imagined marriage, and family—always having someone to float through the day with, someone with whom it didn’t take three emails and six texts and a last-minute reservation change to see one another. Everyone had it when they were kids, but only the truly gifted held on to it in adulthood. People with siblings usually had a leg up, but not always.

Alice did as she was told. She had nothing but questions. Do I want to be married to Tommy? Do I want children? How do I keep my dad alive? What the fuck am I supposed to do with my life? Which life, even? Do I have a job? In some other life, do I have a better one? How do I know which life to choose? Each question was more embarrassing than the last—she couldn’t say any of those out loud, not even to a complete stranger. Her chest expanded and contracted in time with the psychic’s. Alice took an extra breath and decided. She opened her eyes. “How do I know if I’m living the right life?”

fiction was a myth. Fictional stories, that is. Maybe there were bad ones out there, but the good ones, the good ones—those were always true. Not the facts, not the rights and the lefts, not the plots, which could take place in outer space or in hell or anywhere in between, but the feelings. The feelings were the truth.

“Tell me about your cousins,” Alice asked. “Who was your elementary school nemesis? Who was your first kiss? What was Mom like when she was young?”

Any story could be a comedy or a tragedy, depending on where you ended it. That was the magic, how the same story could be told an infinite number of ways.

Happy endings were too much for some people, false and cheap, but hope—hope was honest. Hope was good.