Chapter 3

The herky-jerky action gradually slowed, until I saw my younger self sitting on the sofa of our present home reading a book. The time was 1:05 pm. I moved the hours and minutes levers ahead until around 4:30 when I saw the front door open and my wife’s sister, Cynthia appear and walk towards me. She was so hot back then - tall, good looking, blonde, big tits, wearing a short, tight skirt and thin t-shirt, her nipples clearly visible. Her look said, ‘Rip off my clothes and fuck me!’

“Richard, I’m so glad you’re alone. I have something that I want to talk to you about that I don’t want Annette to hear,” she said, plunking herself beside me, her skirt riding up to her thighs. “She’ll just judge me, and you’re always such a great listener and adviser.”

I remember being wary. It was either about a relationship gone bad i.e. another loser, druggy or abuser she needed time away from, or she wanted money. Maybe both.

“Eddy and I had a big fight and he hit me. I can’t go back there. Can I stay with you guys tonight? He’ll be sober and apologetic tomorrow. I’ll patch things up with him and everything will be fine.”

I heard myself say,”You know what Annette said. We can’t bail you out anymore. I’d really like to help you, but Annette would freak if I said yes.”

“C’mon Dicky, you’ve got to give me a break.” She nestled in close. I could smell her cheap, dollar store perfume. “Look where he hit me,” she said, peeling off her t-shirt. She turned around, displaying a big bruise on her upper back. As she rotated, her beautiful boobs came into view.

Cythnia was well aware of what she was doing. “You like them Dicky? You can touch them if you like. Let me help you.” She put my hands on them, leaned forward and kissed me as the door latch sounded and Annette walked in. The entrance hallway has a half wall so she could see over it and immediately knew what we were up to.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” she screamed. She came running up to us, yelling and swearing, and then started punching me.

I tried to assure her that I had nothing to do with her sister’s actions but it fell on deaf ears as the tirade continued. She turned towards her sister.

“Get out of my fucking house, Cynthia. I never want to see you again!”

The fight went on for another hour or so, and then I ended up sleeping on the couch. I got the silent treatment for a couple of days after. Finally, after numerous attempts to convince her that I was an innocent victim of her sister’s flirtations, she relented and decided not to call her lawyer.

But things were never the same between us after that. Whenever we fought, which was fairly often, her sister would always be part of the argument. Strangely enough, she made peace with Cynthia, and they were best buds again, while I continued to suffer for her behaviour.

Okay, now was the time to rectify things. I used the timepiece to back up to a couple of minutes before my wife got home. I took control of my younger self and got up from the couch, before Cythnia had removed her top. I was in the process of making supper when Annette arrived. Cynthia was lying on the sofa, crying. I returned to my body and then we made arrangements for her to stay the night at a local hotel. The bullet was dodged; our life went on as before.

I was about to return to the present time, when I had a thought, a carnal thought. Man, I would sure like to fuck Cynthia. I had the means to do it. It took a tremendous amount of will power not to take advantage of it! I could go back in time until I had an opportunity to be alone with her with no chance of intervention from Annette. I was on the verge, when I suddenly had this strong desire to see how our marriage had turned out after the change.

I pressed the red button and I was back in my den. Something was very different and not in good way. My antique sex collection was gone! I looked throughout the basement ... all the rooms and closets. Next came the garage and upstairs. No well endowed fertility god sculptures, no vagina figurines, no vibrators, no Victorian porn photos. Everything had disappeared without a trace. Fortunately, I had a secret hiding spot for my journals. I looked through the past few weeks and found the entry about my wife hiring a garbage service, while I was away from home, to take it all to the dump. I had gone out to the landfill the next day, but it was nowhere to be found, already covered up by more loads. It was irretrievable!

I spent the next hour perusing my journals all the way back to October 2010. After the do-over on the 11th, our marriage had been pretty good, lots of positive entries about shared activities, trips and get-togethers with family and friends. Our sex life was decent and regular, albeit predictable. But starting a couple of years ago, it went downhill, again. We were arguing a lot more and my entries gradually showed a resignation to accept my fate ... things were never going to improve between us.

I had a question for the spirit. After my minds-eye focused on the Mona Lisa, there was a swirl of light and colours and he gradually took shape as Scrooge (Alastair Sim’s version) in Dickens ‘A Christmas Carol.’