Never Over.
Its never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
Its never over, all my riches for her smiles when I slept so soft against her
Its never over, all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
Its never over, shes the tear that hangs inside my soul forever
'Lover, You Should've Come Over' Jeff Buckley

April 16th, 1985 (Henry is 41, Clare is 14)

HENRY: When the dizziness ends I stand up. I hit my shoulder against a trashcan and now that I can stand up straight it's hurting, a slow thrumming pain that goes in sync with my headache, a symphony with the nauseas that I have.

I woke up in a dirty alley, with no way to know where I am before I go outside from here, butt-naked, the sun barely starting to get out; even from where I'm standing I can see the peaches and violets of the sunset spreading over, so I determine it's about five or six am, wherever I am. Lovely way to start a day. If I was back home, I'd be waking up to paddle up to Alba's room, to see if she is already awake, see if we start making breakfast, see how long it would take that daughter of Clare and mine to convince me to make pancakes.

I have to stop thinking about that, because then my heart starts breaking with longing. Clothes, I remind myself. Clothes and money and then food. Coffee and eggs and something that will keep me from going crazy until I go back home.

The moment I go out, I recognize South Haven, which puts me in a better mood almost immediately. Is it one of our dates, perhaps? Clare never said anything about me having to go all the way to the Meadow, but then again there are times when she keeps tiny bits of knowledge from me, almost vicious, possessive of the things I do not know yet that for her are the past.

So I break into a store, picking up some jeans, a shirt, shoes, thinking that I'll be able to leave them at the Meadow for the next time, for another me that might be my future or could be from my past. It's an almost nostalgic feeling, that: taking care of myself through the ages, having clothes that are mine - more or less - instead of beloved loans.

Getting money proves itself a little more difficult: it's too early for me to be able to pickpocket anyone outside, and it's almost noon by the time I've acquired enough money for food. I'm well past starving by then, and my bad mood is back: Today is not one of the days when I come to see Clare, but it's a day before. Was this supposed to happen? I don't know and yet, I crave for her. I wander through these streets she is growing up and I try to imagine I go through her steps and that she as well will go through mine, a tango meant for two that can only be danced one at a time, a shadow that is not there and yet it was and it will be like this for as long as I live.

I wonder if I can go and see her, if it'll affect our meetings. She might have made a mistake, the more selfish part of me whispers. Claire was six years old, still a little girl learning how to write. There is no way to be sure that she couldn't have mixed a number. Perhaps we are supposed to meet today.

But I know that's not the case, so I have nothing to do but wait and see if I'll stay here today and wait until tomorrow. Somewhere out there in this crisp town Clare is growing up, laughing with her friends, Clare in her school uniform, and the longing for her laughter pierces through me. I walk through these streets alone, the ghost of her hand upon mine, and if I don't pay attention I believe that she is there with me.

But then, as I take a corner, there she is: Clare. Fourteen years old Clare, tall and thin, her amber hair in a messy braid, sharing an ice cream with her friends. Clare with freckles on her nose, with sunshine hiding in her hair. Clare who laughs and I don't hear it over the rush of blood inside my head, Clare who then turns her head and looks at me and then she gasps.

CLARE:

"Henry!"

I see him, even though it's a day early, even though we are several feet apart from each other: to me is as if there was no-one else. I see him stare as he looks at them but then he pales and he's turning around, and I feel something heavy drop in my stomach, so I tell Megan that I have to leave, I'm sorry, that I'd call her later.

I drop my ice cream but I don't care: I run, following him, but he's too fast and I don't really understand why he's avoiding me even though I think I know why: When I reach an alley there are clothes left but no Henry, no Time Traveler and he's gone back to the future, nothing but his warm clothes for me to believe that he was there.

I feel like crying and I don't know why. I wish I could pick up his clothes, take them with me to the Meadow, to the box where his clothes are, to keep this memento. All I have of Henry are these stolen moments, his hand on my head, messing my hair, his voice as he helps me with my French.

But Megan has followed me and she's asking me what's wrong, so I have to shake my head and smile as I tell her that nothing is wrong, that I'm alright, that I just made a mistake.

Tomorrow. I'll see Henry tomorrow, and he might tell me about this, or not. It doesn't matter. The only thing that's important is that I'll see him tomorrow. This hurting will go away.