I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, even simple meals like this can be enjoyable with someone like Michael. He gives off that calming energy that I’ve heard people have. Unlike, as Isobel says, my frantic energy.

Maybe, in some ways, we complement each other in that sense.

“Speaking of jazz, your music, are you still playing?” I ask, refocusing my attention.

He smiles—no, beams—at me with pride. “You remember.” It’s more a statement of surprise than a question.

“Of course I do.” It’s only been a few days for me, but for him, it’s been seven months. I wonder how much Michael has thought about me. Did he wonder if I was coming back? Did he start to think that I was a figment of his imagination?

“Yeah, I play a set downtown.” He points in the general direction. “Once every two weeks. You should come by sometime.”

Is that something I could do? I’ve never willingly time traveled to a specific period of time. But it should be possible. I doubt that Claire just throws herself through time and hopes for the best. I can learn how to do it.

“If you think, you know, that’s something you’d want to do?” He nervously smiles. “You know, you don’t have to, of course.”

“Two weeks from now, yeah?”

“One week from this upcoming Saturday, actually, but yeah.”

“What time?”

“Ten o’clock at the Citadel. Is that still around in your time?”

“Mm-hmm.” It’s a twenty-one-and-over club. But something tells me that getting in won’t be a problem. “I’ll be there,” I promise.

His smile shifts from nervous to warm as we head deeper into the city. The streets are familiar, but not so familiar that this feels boring. Things have changed in the fifty years between Michael’s time and mine. Side streets and one-way streets have been combined in my time and turned into two-way streets. Buildings have been demolished and ownership has changed. The city is still my city, but not completely.

And there’s some comfort in that. The city is close enough to being my city but far enough away that at this moment, at this time with Michael? It’s ours. It’s not something that can be replicated by thousands of other…

What even are we?

“It’s my turn for a question, I think,” I say, breaking the silence.

Michael glances over at me, finishing the rest of his Coke. He tosses it; the can makes a sharp sound as it hits the corner of the nearby trash can. It bounces once, twice, three times, and then lands inside it.

Michael doesn’t think that I see the way he quietly fist-pumps, but I do.

“Shoot.”

“What did you mean before when you said, ‘It keeps me busy, which is good, since…’?”

“That’s…not the question I thought you were going to ask.”