refraction

For most of Ethan’s life, it had seemed inconceivable that he might ever find what most people referred to as romantic love. He had resigned himself to the idea that there was no other half out there for him, no twin flame or soulmate, no single person that might choose him over everyone else in all the world, and that in the end he might just have to make do with being alone for good. He had become well acquainted with the idea of solitude in his life – sure, it had taken years for him to sacrifice any lingering hope – but he had learned to tolerate the notion of being by himself at least. 

It sometimes pained him, of course. But better, he thought, to live with the pain. He learned to endure it long enough until it went away at least for a time. He had become used to the rhythms of his own sadness and grew adept at navigating these valleys without losing himself completely. It was all he could do really. That or wither away. 

So when out of nowhere, across all billions of lightyears of space and all the epochs of time, the anomalous event which suddenly split and refracted different planes of human existence onto one another, it only served to underscore his own loneliness once again, that now there were even more people in existence who might never choose him. The event was aptly called the Refraction, because it transmuted various human existences and superimposed one to another, sometimes for only brief and fleeting stretches of time. It became immediately clear that there were now exponentially more human existences out there, not just in theory, but visible to each other and interactable with one another. All humans, everywhere, in all sorts of realities, began to acknowledge a deeper understanding that their lives were even more insignificant than they had once realized them to be, that now they were competing with billions and billions more – not just people – but existences of people, multitudes of lives.

But how the planes of existence interacted with one another precisely was still a mystery to even the most accomplished theoretical physicists. When they appeared, in which exact fashion, and for how long was nearly unpredictable by even the most sophisticated computer simulations. Since the event, mathematicians, scientists, and philosophers had spent all their time trying to come to some understanding of this new state of the universe. And all of them came up nearly empty handed. It had been about as productive as the search for god.

The Refraction was a conundrum – it was both simple and yet still a complete mystery. Whatever mechanism caused the refraction allowed one human existence to pass through and transpose onto another, by no choice of the people involved. They were then allowed to exist on another plane for some time. How long exactly was unpredictable. Some existences overlapped for years or decades even. Some returned with such regularity but only for minutes at a time. Some came and went only once every millenia. And some were still out there, waiting to find a point of intersection.

And still Ethan, as with most everyone else, went on about his life. He went to work and packed his lunch each day and spent Saturday afternoons alone at the park or taking laps around the reservoir. Because even in a world where billions and billions more people existed, he still felt just as alone. It was only when, at the park beside the reservoir, he met a dog – a border collie whose tag gave him the name Zucchini – who seemed to have no owner in sight. Zucchini was clean and well groomed and if he had been lost, it hadn’t been for very long. But when Ethan tried to dial the phone number, he reached a woman who had no knowledge of the dog at all. It occurred to him then that Zucchini may have not just been lost to his owner, but to whatever time and space from which he had originally departed, that he may have been, in fact, from an entirely different existence.

Ethan took Zucchini by the leash and walked him over to the dog park to have a drink of water from the fountain and to run around for a bit. And when they both grew tired, they sat together under the shade of an oak tree, waiting for Zucchini’s owner to return – or perhaps for the universe to return him to whichever existence he belonged. But days passed and nothing happened – Zucchini remained intact and in existence here – so Ethan returned to the same spot he found Zucchini in the hopes that his owner might return looking for him. Each day, he packed a lunch and the two of them walked the perimeter of the reservoir, stopping at the dog park for a while, then circling back to the car to return home. Ethan even varied his schedule, alternating the times when he made his trips in case Zucchini’s owner might return with the same irregularity.

Then a few weeks later, Ethan was sitting on the grass under the shade when he heard a voice call out, “Zucchini, there you are, boy.” Zucchini rushed over to a sturdy man around the same age as Ethan, tall and slender, brunette with a permanent afternoon shadow, but manicured to be presentable even in business settings. He wore shorts and a fitted polo that emphasized the time he spent at the gym, but remained modest enough so no one could say he was showing off. The man walked over to Ethan and reached his hand out. “Thank you,” he said, “for taking care of Zucchini. I lost him the last time I was here.” 

“It’s no problem,” Ethan said. “It’s been nice having him.”

“Refraction works different for animals and humans in our plane of existence,” the man told him. “They can stay longer than we can for some reason. Still no idea why.”

They shook hands, lingering for a moment too long. The man had a nice smile, inviting eyes, and a firm grip. Up close, Ethan could now see the specks of white and gray in his facial hair and the lines etched across his face. He seemed to wear them like badges, with such an ease that most people couldn’t muster when it came to aging. He had acquired them through years of experience, proud to have lived those years. “Garrett,” he said. “Name’s Garrett.” Ethan introduced himself just as Zucchini nuzzled up to him. “He likes you,” Garrett said. “And I can see why.” 

They took a seat on the grass for a moment while Zucchini wandered off in the distance. “Do you know how much time you have?” Ethan asked.

“So far, from what we can tell, it seems we get about four hours every two weeks. For Zucchini, we’re not so sure. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

“Must be nice for him.”

Garrett laughed. “Actually, since he likes you so much, could I ask you a favor?”

Ethan nodded.

“Would you mind taking care of him when I’m not here? Would you mind that?”

With any hesitation Ethan mustered, “No, I wouldn’t mind.” In fact, he had been hoping for the request. With Zucchini around, Ethan had felt quite so alone anymore. Another beating heart in the house. Another stirring body. It was comforting.

Garrett looked at his watch. “I think I’ve got a couple more hours left.” 

“That’s all, huh?”

“Let me buy you dinner. To say thank you.”

Ethan nodded, and the two of them put Zucchini on a leash, then strolled down the street to a cafe that was still open mid-afternoon. Ethan learned that Garrett was a documentary filmmaker. He had been working on a new series interviewing people from various existences, or “origins” as they had become known, compiling all the footage to see if they could find some common thread among them, to see what they could learn from each other about how the refraction worked. “Every origin is unique and yet somehow they’re all the same,” Garrett said. Garrett had discovered that there were some refractions that were uni-directional – they only moved one way. And some refractions were reciprocal – both sides could refract on each other, sharing each other’s origin.

As it turned out, Garrett’s existence only moved one way. No one came to his existence. Theirs only moved onto other planes but did not allow for any travel to their own. So whenever he found himself in another time and place, he would find someone to interview, record them, and bring the footage back with him. But it wasn’t surprising to Ethan that strangers would just talk to Garrett. He was handsome, objectively, and carried himself with the kind of carefreeness that came only from being born good looking and wealthy and a man. Even in Garrett’s existence, those sorts of things still were of the utmost value. It just made Ethan understand that even across the multitudes of existences, he himself continued to rank low on the list of the privileged.

But for all his inherited qualities, Garrett was also kind and warm and thoughtful when he had no reason to be. He could’ve been a jerk and still gotten by in the world, but he was charming and self-effacing and modest. By the end of dinner, Ethan found himself completely smitten with Garrett, but mostly he put aside the possibility that anything might happen between them. He, of course, wouldn’t have considered that someone like Garrett might actually be interested in someone like him. Though Ethan wasn’t unattractive, he wasn’t perhaps obviously attractive at the same time. Not in the way that Garrett was, of course. Ethan was slight, shorter than average, not fat or skinny, but not muscular either. He looked generic and he was soft spoken and maybe saw his own lack of personal confidence as a sober reflection of his personal value, not a flaw he had to overcome.

Garrett pulled Ethan in for a hug before the time would come for Garrett to be returned. It was the kind of warm embrace that expected no reciprocation, so confident in its giving. Then, the two of them found a spot on the grass and waited for Garrett’s refraction to end. And when he could feel it coming on, Garrett politely excused himself out of sight, leaving Ethan alone with Zucchini until they would meet the next time for just another brief few hours together.

✹

The wait to see Garrett again felt endless. Even just a few weeks felt like an eternity. It was true that time could dilate for humans – it could stretch and compress. Moments could feel like eternities and weeks even longer than that. And hours could then feel just like minutes. Which is how it felt when Garrett returned for those hours that next afternoon, weeks later. Ethan, of course, was waiting for him in the spot they had met. And Garrett was excited he was there too that it made Ethan feel special and wanted, in some small way at least, in a way he hadn’t before.

Garrett had been displaced time and time again in other dimensions in the weeks preceding, and he had gathered more footage for his documentary. He couldn’t wait to tell Ethan about the origins he had visited and the people he had met along the way. He was no closer to understanding the refraction, but perhaps was a bit closer to understanding human nature itself, which was maybe even better. This time, they sat in the park, then walked around the reservoir for the time Garrett was there. And at the end, it felt like they had known each other for much longer than the sum total of the hours they had spent together.

Garrett told Ethan about his work and about his family and about the childhood memories to which he still clung. And Ethan told Garrett about the time he was rear-ended in a parking lot and when he missed his flight to Ecuador and how once though he had an allergic reaction to shellfish, but he had really fallen into poison oak. There was an unearned ease about their rapport, which made it feel serendipitous, cosmic almost. Ethan had a way of turning ordinary things special, things which were fairly unspecial to another person, things that maybe meant a lot less to them in fact. He’d often find his mind wandering to the idea that maybe the universe had finally delivered him something he needed and wanted and that it could actually work out in the end – but in truth, most of the time it didn’t.

So at the end of their second meeting, it surprised Ethan when Garrett made the first move. Not because he didn’t want it to happen or didn’t consider it a possibility, but mostly because it had become such a frequent occurrence for the things Ethan most wanted to disappear from under him. Before the refraction ended, Garrett asked if Ethan would keep coming back.

“Of course,” Ethan said. “I’d love to.”

In the weeks between visits, Ethan thought of Garrett all the time. He hadn’t felt overwhelmed with the idea of someone in so long. It was intoxicating and excruciating at the same time. The time away, the space apart. The days passed both quickly and at a nauseatingly slow pace. They seemed only to be filled with diversions to distract him, nothing of substance or meaning, just trivialities meant to fill the void of Garrett’s existence.

And then Garrett arrived and it all seemed to go away for those brief short hours. And it felt like all the rest of time and space became irrelevant to Ethan’s own existence – that perhaps he only truly existed in Garrett’s presence. Ethan had to remind himself over and over not to get caught up in these things – that they could end at any moment, get snatched away like most good things in life, all worthwhile things.

They walked the length of the reservoir over and over with such routine that it soon became a ritual for them. They liked the regularity – after all, their relationship had been built around the rhythms of Garrett’s refraction to Ethan’s origin. They talked about the universe, about the existence of god and the human soul, about the meaning of the refraction. But in the end, they arrive at no conclusions, except for one – that they both found solace in each other for those brief few hours together. 

Still, part of Ethan wondered how many others there were out there – what other people in all the other origins through which Garrett traveled – others with whom he shared these very same moments. Perhaps Ethan wasn’t special at all. Not to Garrett. Those intrusive thoughts weren’t a reflection necessarily of how Garrett treated him, but based on the idea that all things, both good and bad, always came to an end. And if Garrett had these same thoughts and shared these same moments with others out there, did it diminish the time they spent together? After all, wasn’t a person’s capacity to love an ever-renewing resource? Couldn’t a person love – and love more – over and over again? But if that were true, wasn’t heartbreak also infinite? It could be felt over and over and over again. So which idea was better, Ethan thought, to feel nothing or to have the capacity to feel everything for one’s entire existence.

And still, none of these things mattered when Garrett was around. The two of them along with Zucchini existed in their own universe, apart from their own and all the countless others out there. That was what a person could do to you, Ethan thought, make you forget about your entire existence. They kissed under the tree where they had first met, and each time when he felt it coming on, Garrett politely excused himself and disappeared completely.

✹

For a time they built this routine. And there were times when it became hard for Ethan to be apart from Garrett with such regularity, only to get a few short hours every few weeks. He wanted more than that. Still, he made do with what he was offered. After all, it wasn’t Garrett’s fault they couldn’t see each other more. In the end the universe could’ve given them less, but it gave them enough – enough to be together. 

And Ethan got caught up in it – so much so that it seemed that it might never end, until one day, when more weeks had passed, and Garrett didn’t show up. Ethan waited for him in the same place and then hours passed and there was no sign of Garrett. Even Zucchini began to wonder what had happened. They sat in the park until the sun crested over the trees and gave way to twilight. Deep down, Ethan had always been waiting for it to end, that it was some kind of inevitability. At first he worried that something might’ve happened to Garrett. He spent the next two weeks wondering if Garrett had been in some kind of accident or if the refraction had changed in some way. It wasn’t until he heard murmurs at work that he started to wonder whether it might be something else.

It seemed that there had, for some time, been a theory floating around that at least one origin had found a way to navigate the refraction, that they could come and go from place to place and time to time, whenever they saw fit. It was unclear how long this had been possible and which origin had discovered this, but it seemed clear that there might now be a way to control the state of the universe, or perhaps there had already been for some time.

He went back to the park two weeks later and, to his surprise, found Garrett there waiting for him, holding a camera. At first Garrett apologized that he had missed their last meeting – he said he had been busy filming more people as it became more well known that there might be a way to control the refraction. He had been moving from place to place and gathered more and more interviews with various strangers along the way. And now he wanted to interview Ethan. 

They found a quiet spot away from the crowd where they could sit and talk. Garrett set up his camera and clipped a lapel microphone to Ethan’s shirt. Zucchini lounged in the sun nearby, too tired to run around anymore, simply waiting for the day to end and for his owner to return him home. Garrett pulled out a notebook filled with scribbled thoughts he had accumulated over months and months. He flipped the pages, mentally preparing, searching for the right order of things. But before he could begin, Ethan interjected.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you,” he said.

“Sure, what is it?”

“I think I might be falling in love with you.”

Ethan was met with silence. Before Garrett could respond, he stepped back in. “That doesn’t mean you have to feel any way about me. I just wanted you to know.”

“I appreciate that,” Garrett said. He looked away from Ethan, unable to make eye contact. But then he flipped the page and moved on. “Can we start with a few basic questions?” Garrett began a series of administrative questions which must have been meant to keep everyone straight. His name, date of birth, place of birth, his origin. These would help distinguish him from the countless other interviewees Garrett had already gathered on camera. 

Then, he asked, “What was it like the first time you experienced the refraction?”

Ethan couldn’t remember exactly, not right away. It was so long ago by now that he really had to think to recall how it happened. “I think I was eight or nine and one day we went to school and there were twice as many kids. I don’t think I understood what had happened at the time. They were there for a month and then they were gone.”

“Did they ever come back?” Garrett asked.

Ethan shook his head. 

“How does it make you feel? The coming and going. The idea that it could happen at any time.”

Ethan, of course, always felt unnerved by the idea that his existence could be transposed somewhere else or that a whole other existence could be placed upon him, but he had learned that within polite society, a person shouldn’t express those thoughts. He gave the most politic response he could think of: “I’ve grown accustomed to the unpredictability of life.”

That was something that Garrett perhaps hadn’t considered, that for some people, life mostly didn’t work out, that they were well accustomed to such vicissitudes in their everyday life, that it was nothing new to them and that maybe he’d had it easier than most other people, that his life had been just one series of fortunate events for him. But the thought probably only occurred to Ethan – those notions were lost on people like Garrett. They were too busy occupying their time with documentary films and nights out at fundraiser galas.

Still, Ethan thought that the judgment might have been unfair, or at least premature. Even though he had felt a strong connection to Garrett, he didn’t really know him. They had spent all this time together and it was clear that Garrett held back – his emotions, his inner life, his most secret thoughts. He had been trained, it seemed, to obfuscate whatever he was actually feeling and replace it with what he might deem acceptable in polite society. It was how people like Garrett got by, in fact, how they got as far as they did. What they didn’t understand is that the deck was stacked in their favor – no one else stood a chance.

Garrett finished his questions as the sun started to hang lower and shadows began to disappear entirely. “Don’t you have to go?” Ethan asked.

“Not today,” Garrett said. “I want to stay today.”

Ethan invited Garrett back to his place and they had dinner and afterwards lay under the covers. Ethan had gotten so caught up in the moment, he hardly realized that when Garrett excused himself out to the hallway for a glass of water, he was looking for a way to leave. Ethan found him in the kitchen lacing up his shoes. He stood there watching him for a moment until Garrett noticed him.

“You could do it the whole time, couldn’t you?”

“What?” But Garrett knew what Ethan meant. “Yes,” he admitted. Suddenly, it made more sense, and all the sudden, Garrett – and the relationship he had made with Ethan – had not been doomed by the whims of the universe, but a direct manipulation of Garrett’s own doing.

The chatter of navigating the refraction had only reached Ethan recently, but it had been there the whole time. And in Garrett’s origin, humans could choose where and when they went. For who knows how long. And so, Ethan understood, it had been Garrett’s choice all along to come and go when he pleased. To set the limits of their interactions. And to hide his intentions. And it served him best to remain under the guise that he was yet another victim in the larger schemes of the cosmos, of this anomalous event, of the whims of the universe.

“I don’t plan on coming back,” Garrett said as he stood up. “This is the last time I’ll be here.”

Ethan lowered his head. “I understand.”

Garrett took a step forward and held Ethan’s hand. “I really liked you. It’s not about you.”

“Did you know the whole time? That you didn’t want to stay?”

“Probably some part of me did. Yeah.”

“Why then? Why do it at all?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t about the refraction at all. Maybe I couldn’t come back because of something inside of me. Maybe I’m incapable of it.”

“Of what?”

“Of any of this.”

Ethan understood what he meant. It was the first time he actually saw Garrett for who he really was, the person actually standing there, not some phantom, but as just another person who came and went with just enough frequency to keep Ethan hoping for more.

“But there are other people out there. Countless other people. From all sorts of origins. Someone else is out there for you. The right person.” To Garrett these were meant to be comforting words, but he had said them so many times, they had lost all meaning. 

Then, Garrett grabbed the leash by the doorway and secured Zucchini to it. He turned and walked out the front door and closed it behind him. Ethan knew he would never see Garrett or Zucchini again. Not here or in any other origin. And in the end, he couldn’t tell who he’d miss more. 

✹

He woke the next morning feeling sad, but at least certain that his life would go on as it had always. He went back to the reservoir to take a walk, knowing full well he would not see Garrett or Zucchini there, not today, not ever again. It gave him a sense of peace, an unexpected assurance, even if that assurance was that he would be alone, at the least on this walk. He found a spot on the grass and waited for the sun to set over the hills. And when the sun had fully retreated and twilight overtook daylight, he listened to the sounds of the joggers and the couples nearby and the groups of friends who had met there to picnic for dinner. 

There had always been people around him, always there. He had been sharing this place and this time with them all along. But he hadn’t considered that they might bring him some kind of comfort. That all the people across all space and time might’ve been there for him too. In some small way. Even if they didn’t know it themselves. So Ethan closed his eyes and imagined every other person in the whole universe and in every other origin, imagined them all together, knitted together like some larger fabric, a part of the same piece. And in a way it made him feel better. At least for the time.