October Thirtieth

[chapter two]

Chapter Two 
October 30th, 1920

"You know we have to do it."

"God, of course we have to do it, but it doesn't mean I want to," Margaret pleaded, her clammy hands in fists against her red, woolen, floor-length coat. "I can't have my entire life end so . . . suddenly."

He bit his lip, both hands frantically grabbing at his hair, eyes closed, deep breath. "Fine. Fine. Do you want to know what we're going to do?"

She sniffled. "What?"

"Just one day. One day, together, you and me. Then we'll do it. Alright?" he murmured, his slender fingers tugging at hers, squeezing her fingertips. She squeezed back.

Margaret looked up at him with wide eyes, a silent trail of tears rolling down her cheek. "Do you promise you're going to find me? That we're going to be okay when everything is over?"

His eyes were glossed over. It was like he was staring right through her.

"Jones?" she whispered.

His face was hollow and his voice sounded empty. "I promise."

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October 30th, 2016

"So, Margaret Levartemit," Jones speculated. "How would you like to go back to my place, and we can talk more about our . . . situation."

Margaret felt her eyes widen, her lips fall apart. "What?"

"Not to do anything else, y'know, just talking," he confirmed. "I promise."

"Fine," Margaret agreed, stuffing her hands in her pockets. "But just talking."

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A hot cocoa sat in front of her, as well as Jones.

Her coat was folded on the chair next to her, and Neal Jones was tapping his forefingers on the wooden table. The same rhythm. One, two and three, four. One, two and three, four. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Silence. Slurp. One, two and three, four.

"Why was I crying?" she whispered. "Why were we together? And why was I kissing you? In the past ninety years, I haven't touched your lips with my lips once."

"I know, I know, I don't remember kissing you either. Well, up until a few hours, that is. I don't know, maybe it's a past life. Maybe it's a dream. I just . . ." he groaned. "Shit, I don't know. I don't know. Ninety years. That isn't normal."

She scoffed. "You're telling me."

A classic teal stereo nearly blended into the chipping wallpaper. The pattern was a floral collage of daisies and roses, climbing up the wall. Slowly peeling.

"Like the décor?" he questioned.

"It's cozy," she hummed. "Do you move around often?"

"About every few years," he responded. "It's difficult to explain to the people around me that I don't age. Better to just leave."

Margaret gulped, a shrew smile adorning her face. "It always is."

"Yet we always find each other. Every October thirtieth."

"It's nearly the thirty-first, though. We only ever see each other on the thirtieth. Will we see each other tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the day after that?"