Writer's Block

Strawberry Tarts vs Deep Fried Pickles (Multiverse)

A happy, happy (almost belated, yeesh time zones suck) birthday to Ehcimocs . Um, I borrowed your characters again, this time without asking. But it's for your birthday, so I'm forgiven, right? Right?

Unbetaed. Probably obviously so. Also the "plot", such as there is of it, is a bit of a mess. Sorry, was in a rush.

Spoilers for my story Blood Lines and Ehcimoc's Heebie Jeebies. Welcome back to the Multiverse Cafe.

"How often do you come here?" I ask, taking another sip of coffee before diving into the second half of my club sandwich.

Scott shrugs. He finished his meal some time ago. "Three or four times a year? It's a pain to get to, but I find it fascinating." He leans forward, checking the line of the impressively tall tower he's building from another angle.

The waitress, a doppelganger of Kirstie, drops another bowlful of creamers on our table as she passes, a heavy tray balanced in her other hand. Huh. Guess Scott does this regularly. Or maybe another Scott does. Maybe they all do and this Kirstie just knows to bring more makeshift building blocks whenever a Scott is left to his own devices for too long?

Wow, this is weird. But Scott has a point; the psychology alone is fascinating. I wonder if anyone with access has every conducted a study. The value in informing the whole nature versus nurture debate alone is probably more than worth it.

And then I roll my eyes because if I've even thought of doing so, Scott's probably already halfway through writing a dissertation.

I'm mid-sandwich bite when another thought occurs to me. "Wait," I say, struggling to swallow so I can speak. "If you've been coming here for years, did you meet other versions of me before, well, me?"

I don't know how I'll feel about that if he has. Strike that, I do. I know I don't like the idea. At all. I want to be the first Mitch in his life, the baseline. The one to which all the others he meets are compared. And hopefully found wanting.

Scott puts his creamers down to focus his full attention on me. He's always been good at knowing when I need reassurance and when I don't.

He shakes his head, gently. "No. I have no idea how it works, but the Cafe always seems to be filled with versions of people I already know." He lays his hand across the table, and I follow his silent request to take it. "And usually it's only people I know really well. I've met other versions of you since, but I'd never seen a Mitch Grassi, detective or otherwise, before we met."

That's far more of a relief than I'd like to admit.

The little bell above the door jangles and we both turn to see who it is. It's us, or rather another version of us. We met another pair on our way in. They were singers, maybe ten years younger than we are. Scott seemed to know them, or maybe knew people similar enough to them that it didn't matter. From what they'd said and how they were dressed, I think their universe is fairly similar to ours, with the exception of their chosen career paths. I guess I should spend more time singing in the shower; apparently I have the potential to be pretty good.

This new pair of us, however, were definitely not from a world similar to ours.

The clothing is the first clue, sort of medieval-looking. Or maybe Renaissance? I've never been great at history. But they definitely aren't from either San Francisco or LA if they're walking around dressed like that. And that's before I notice their waistlines.

And by waistlines, I don't mean they've put on a few more pounds than we have. That's easy enough to do that I'm sure if we keep coming here we'll run into versions of ourselves of all sizes, just like we will of all ages.