There are four things that I should tell you and four things that I shouldn’t, but I choose not to say any of them. There’s a limited time before this party collapses; a limited time before we cycle through it again; a limited time before whatever remains of our atoms reforms into an object in motion.
Welcome to the end of the world, baby.
At least no dies here.
Mostly.
*****
You take my hand and we dance, as the music pulses around us, and I have barely enough time to tell you that I like your silver dress.
You’re wearing jeans the next time I see you, and I’m surprised that I even recognize it’s you. Your entire appearance is different — mine is as well — but somehow, we find each other in the massing crowd.
The room around us shrinks as the superstate collapses, and everyone screams “Happy New Year!”, the sound of their voices fading as that universe ends.
*****
The mechanism behind it all is one that I don’t understand.
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But it’s not necessary to understand it, only to experience it, as we cycle through an infinite number of possibilities. The party is underwater when I see you again, and the emerald green of your scales moves in time with the kelp lights. I take your hand as a whirlpool forms and we allow ourselves to be sucked into the vortex together.
*****
We develop a routine, as much as two souls flitting between collapsing universes can develop a routine. You find me or I find you, but it doesn’t really matter because we almost always find each other. Sometimes, we have minutes together; sometimes, only seconds. But it is in the space between the seconds that I fall in love with you.
*****
I become addicted to finding you, to touching you, to knowing that you are the one point of permanence in my entire fragmented existence. You laugh and tell me that I’m being silly, that there will be a tomorrow and another tomorrow — that there’s always a tomorrow, even though our world is always ending.
*****
There are fireworks in this universe, bursting above our heads as everything starts to close in. You tilt your head back and the jewels threaded through your curls sparkle in the exploding light.
And then, you turn to face me, and for the barest interval, I see a dark shimmer move across your arm. The sight of it makes my insides twist, but I push the thought of it, the meaning of it, away. I convince myself that it’s merely the intermittent illumination as darkness and light trade places overhead.
“Happy New Year!” I say, and you reach up to kiss me like this is the first time we’ve done this. I sink into your embrace, just as I will sink into your embrace for the next five universes we cycle through.
But I see it — again and again and again, until sometimes even you can see it crossing your body.
“What was that?” you ask, as you wave your octopus-like tentacles at me.
“Nothing,” I answer, and hold you closer with four of mine.