By C. H. Simko

For a brief stretch of time, Matthew believes he has done quite well.

There are no forgotten pieces on the floor, which is always a good sign, and despite sweating through his shirt, Matthew is not as harried as efforts like this usually make him. He studies the final page of the instruction booklet lying open on the bed. The last diagram appears to approve of his work, and at the bottom of the page a small, androgynous cartoon figure offers what looks like cheerful encouragement. Matthew takes it as confirmation that he has reached the end of the construction process.

That is, at least, his best interpretation. The instructions, if one can even call them that, are entirely wordless. Just a sequence of graphics meant to guide him through what is, by any reasonable standard, a difficult piece of furniture to build. The whole experience is about as straightforward as buttoning a shirt while wearing oven mitts. In a room lit by a strobe.

He flips back through the booklet one last time, looking for a forgotten instruction or hidden final step. There is nothing to suggest he’s done anything wrong. The problem only becomes clear when he tries to stand the NORDKISA open wardrobe with sliding door upright, and the piece offers its first note of feedback.

Now, Matthew knows the floors of his Back Bay apartment are not exactly level. There is a certain pitch to them. One his landlord described, with a straight face, as having ‘historic charm’. But the angle at which the wardrobe leans far exceeds anything he could reasonably attribute to charm. It is certainly not charming when the object in question has taken three hours to assemble. Three hours. Three hours of aligning and inserting and tightening exactly where and when he was told.

During those three hours, he had come to suspect the NORDKISA (open wardrobe with sliding door) was less a piece of furniture than a test of his character. He designs buildings for a living. Puts things together and makes them stand up, on a much larger scale. And yet here he is, defeated by something a cartoon character appears to assemble without difficulty.

There are not even that many pieces. Just the sides. The top. The—

The back.

He stands there for a moment, overtaken by the same feeling he gets when he locks his keys inside his apartment on his way to the laundry room. He compares the final diagram to whatever he has just built and sees it: the back panel is upside down, which explains why the wardrobe looks more like an avant-garde sculpture than anything that passes for furniture.

The moment he went wrong was during a complicated bit of choreography that required him to hold one side steady while guiding the back panel into two others at once. The kind of manoeuvre that would have been easier with a second set of hands. In fact, at that exact point in the instructions, the small, androgynous cartoon figure inexplicably acquires a partner. He takes that as an insult, as though the entire ready-to-assemble furniture industry of Sweden were thumbing its nose at him, reminding Matthew that not too long ago he could have called into the other room and recruited his own reliable assistant.

But of course, he cannot ask Duncan. Duncan no longer lives here.

Matthew might have had to beg him to help, but Duncan would have at least stood nearby with his arms crossed and pointed out that the back panel was about to be installed upside down. He would have been amused watching Matthew wrestle with the tiny, bent piece of metal masquerading as a tool, cursing under his breath, whispering words of encouragement to an inanimate object and coming closer to prayer than he had in years.

Now, with his fingertips raw and small blisters beginning to form, Matthew sits on the floor against the bed and considers whether he could simply live with the wardrobe this way. It is, after all, an improvement over his current system of piling clothes in the corner of the bedroom, exactly where the dresser used to be. When Duncan moved out, he took it with him. The space has remained empty ever since, as though objects, like people, sometimes just need time before they come back. But balancing his shirts and pants inside a piece of furniture that can barely stand upright would mean waking up every morning to another reminder that some things cannot simply be put back together.

Instead, he checks the time to make sure he is still within the thirty-minute window and tries to remember when he installed the back panel upside down. It does not have to be the exact moment, only close enough that his past self has a chance of understanding the warning. Worst case, the signal only confuses or annoys him, but he remembers what his state of mind was like twenty-five minutes ago, so he has very little to lose.

Matthew lifts a hand to the device resting against his temple and sets it twenty-five minutes back before pressing the small centre button. Nothing happens. At least not right away. For such groundbreaking technology, it is surprisingly anticlimactic. Just a faint pulse of green, confirmation that the signal has been sent.

All he can do now is wait and hope the version of himself from twenty-five minutes ago is smart enough to understand what he’s trying to say. Matthew pictures himself in the middle of assembly, holding three pieces in place while wrestling with the little candy-cane wrench. A flash of green will catch the corner of his eye. He won’t know what it means, only that his future self thought it important enough to interrupt him. With any luck, he’ll put that architect’s brain to work and catch his mistake.

The irony is not lost on him that the version of himself from twenty-five – no, twenty-six – minutes ago is probably already fed up with the vague, unhelpful instructions he has been working through for the better part of two and a half hours. Now he’s offering himself an equally vague warning from the future. That flash of green could mean anything. One of his daily anxieties has finally come true. The bathroom floor has collapsed into the unit below. He left the oven on overnight.

He pauses. He did turn the oven off, right?

The tech is still new enough that it can only reach back thirty minutes at most, which limits its usefulness. Still, the ability to send something back in time, even this little, is incredible. So far, Matthew has avoided a couple of parking tickets, and he almost never forgets his work badge anymore.

Word out of Silicon Valley is that this is only the beginning. One day, people might be able to send actual messages to themselves. Or send a signal hours back. Weeks. Even years. If that kind of reach became possible, Matthew knows exactly what he’d do. He’d send back a fiery, unmistakable flash of magenta. Something to tip him off that Duncan was always suspiciously coy about those after-work events. That he mentioned Dave, his paralegal, a little too often. That maybe he should have asked more questions about who Duncan was texting so late at night.

Lost in thought, Matthew barely notices when the wardrobe rights itself before his eyes. One moment on the verge of collapse, the next sturdy and upright. He never quite gets used to the way a successful signal rewrites the present. One blink, and reality corrects itself.

Matthew pushes himself up from the floor and stands with his hands on his hips, taking a long breath as the room settles around him. He allows himself a moment of pride. He deciphered the signal. Saved himself hours of unscrewing and reassembling. He begins moving the piles of shirts and pants from the floor into the wardrobe, finally giving them a proper home, and for a moment, everything feels right.

Then he remembers the other boxes.

The FJÄLLBO and the BRIMNES. The evil cousins of the NORDKISA, waiting in the living room. Eager to ruin what remains of his weekend.

He lets out a low groan, reaches for his phone and schedules someone to come assemble them the next day.

The next morning, Matthew hears a knock at the door just as he finishes his first mug of coffee. He is slumped into the one chair Duncan did not take with him, his body folded into the slightly contorted position he defaults to when he is alone. One leg wrapped around the other and propped up on the BRIMNES. His elbow hooked behind his head, his coffee within easy reach atop the FJÄLLBO. Both pieces are proving surprisingly useful as, well, not furniture.

He is enjoying a slow start to the day. Coffee. The aggressive chorus of traffic on Mass Ave. A novel by Hanya Yanagihara. Which means that, despite the time, 9.15, an hour that generally does not permit emotional collapse, he finds himself crying. Full, snotty tears into his paperback. Between sniffles, he hears another knock at the door and realizes it must be the handyman he scheduled. The one he hired to turn his footrest and side table into actual pieces of furniture.

‘Just a minute,’ he calls out, finishing his page before placing the book on the windowsill. He presses at the underside of his eyes, as if that might help, and feels a little foolish for trying. Then he crosses the room and opens the door—

—and finds a very handsome man standing on the other side.

‘Hi,’ the man says. ‘Matthew? I’m here to put together some furniture for you.’

Matthew has never really encountered a handyman in the wild before, so the image he carries is assembled from a loose combination of Mario and Luigi and the stereotype of someone bent under a sink with their butt crack hanging out. Why his mind defaults to caricatures of plumbers, he is not entirely sure. But the man on the other side of the door does not fit any of those images. He is young. Well-groomed. A flat stomach visible beneath a tucked-in shirt. A full head of hair. He even has all of his teeth, currently on display as he smiles, waiting to be let in. However, Matthew just stands there, blinking, revising the stereotype in real time, beginning to suspect he might not mind seeing this particular handyman’s butt crack at all.

He clears his throat. ‘Yes… Uh, yes. It’s-a me. Matthew.’ For reasons he cannot explain, his voice takes on the over-enunciated tone of a North End pizza shop owner. ‘You must be Sergio.’

Matthew steps aside, letting Sergio into his apartment, then gestures toward the living room. ‘They’re over there. The boxes. The ones I… need help with.’

Sergio nods, still smiling, with an enthusiasm that suggests he might actually enjoy assembling flat-pack furniture. Matthew finds himself briefly distracted by the warm, chocolatey colour of his eyes. Sergio, apparently unaware of the effect he is having, shrugs off his jacket and swings his bag down to the floor. He lifts the mug from atop the FJÄLLBO and hands it back to Matthew.

‘Cool place,’ Sergio says. ‘Did you just move in?’

‘Hmm… Yeah. Something like that,’ Matthew says. ‘Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?’

‘Actually, coffee would be great,’ Sergio says, already with a blade in hand, slicing cleanly through the tape of the first box.

‘One coffee coming rrright up,’ Matthew says, now sounding like the host of a game show. He hears himself and winces, but Sergio is too absorbed in exhuming the FJÄLLBO from its cardboard coffin.

From the kitchen, Matthew keeps an eye on the handyman as he fishes through his bag and pulls out tools (real tools!). Something like a hammer with a yellow plastic head. Then a drill, a battery snapped cleanly into place.

Matthew lives in a small apartment. The kitchen is basically the living room, and there is nowhere to make himself scarce, which he uses to justify why he cannot seem to pull his attention away from this man. And besides, Sergio is a stranger in his home. It is only responsible to keep an eye on him. So Matthew does exactly that, admiring the definition in Sergio’s legs as he crouches among the pieces.

As he makes a full pot of coffee, something he has not done since Duncan lived here, his attention splits between remembering the ratio of grounds to water and watching Sergio work steadily through the build.

He looks back. Then away. Then back again, like he is following a long tennis rally. A spoonful of grounds. A glance at the sharp lines of Sergio’s arms as he lays out the pieces. Water into the pot. Sergio’s dark hair falling just above his eyes as he bends to read the instructions.

Matthew feels faintly ridiculous, hovering at the edge of his own kitchen like this, and has the disorienting thought that he might not have actually woken up this morning. That this is some overly specific dream.

He should pinch himself, he thinks—

—and then his grip slips.

The coffee pot, now mostly full, drops from his hands and shatters against the floor. Water spreads quickly across the tile.

‘Is everything okay in there?’ Sergio calls out.

‘Yes! All good,’ Matthew says, already on his hands and knees, surveying the damage.

He reaches up and calibrates the device at his temple, sending a signal back thirty seconds. And just like that, the glass and water are gone. The coffee pot sits secure in the machine, amber liquid already dripping into it.

Matthew stands there for a moment, letting his brain catch up to what his eyes are seeing. He peeks around the corner and finds Sergio busy at work, uninterrupted by the crash that never happened. He is already fastening two sides of a future sideboard together, focused and unaware. This version of him has no reason to register Matthew as a hot mess.

He allows himself exactly one moment of relief. Keep it together.

Matthew studies Sergio again, as casually as he can manage. The small studs in both earlobes. The close fit of his pants. Details that could mean something. Or nothing. The thought that Sergio might be interested in men – might be interested in him – flares up, then is quickly walked back. He feels the pull, but has no idea what to do with it.

‘If you need me, I’m going to be in the other room,’ Matthew calls out, ‘because I’m going to change out of the smelly clothes I slept in. Coffee’s almost ready.’

Too much information. But Sergio just responds with a soft, non-committal grunt.

Matthew flinches and resists the urge to send another signal back ten seconds and erase the whole overshare. He knows it would not really help. The moment might disappear, but he would still remember it and the knot in his stomach would remain. He retreats to the relative safety of his bedroom and turns to his newly assembled wardrobe, pulling clothes from it with a feverish urgency. He looks for something to wear that might make Sergio notice him the way he has been noticing Sergio.

He pulls on jeans first. His good pair. The ones that suggest he visits the gym somewhere between three and zero times a week, and while he is there, he uses the leg press on occasion.

A promising start. But he still needs something on top.

He considers his options. T-shirts feel too casual. Button-downs feel like an odd choice for a Sunday morning at home. His attention drifts to the small pile at the back of the closet. A box of Duncan’s clothes, left behind and, so far, unmentioned out of spite.

Matthew pulls the top shirt free and puts it on, realising it is one of Duncan’s cropped shirts. Not something he would normally wear. Duncan had always been more of a crop-top person than he was.

Still. He raises his arms, testing how much midriff he has to work with. Hmm. Good jeans. His ex’s shirt. This could work.

He takes a step toward the bedroom door—

—and a flash of green cuts across his periphery.

Matthew stops short. ‘Really?’ he says to no one in particular. What disaster, exactly, is he setting himself up for by walking out there in this? He heeds his own warning and abandons the outfit. The cropped shirt comes off. A plain, neutral T-shirt goes on. Unremarkable, but there is no warning flash, so he assumes it is safe. Now his jeans are his only means of seduction.

On his way back through the kitchen, he fills two mugs with coffee and carries them into the living room. He stops there, holding both, realising there is nowhere to set them down. The boxes are already flattened, and Sergio is midway through assembling the second piece of furniture, which happens to be the future coffee table. Matthew tries not to feel inferior at the speed with which Sergio works. He assures himself the NORDKISA was a much more complicated build.

‘Thanks, man,’ Sergio says, spotting the mug. He stands and takes it from Matthew, their fingers brushing for a moment. He takes a sip, closes his eyes, actually savouring it.

Those eyelashes, Matthew thinks. He checks, discreetly, for drool on his chin.

‘I meant to grab something on my way downtown, but traffic on 90 was brutal. Didn’t have time,’ Sergio says.

‘Where were you coming from?’

‘Quincy. That’s where I live,’ Sergio says, then takes another sip. ‘This is good. Where do you get your beans?’

‘Brazil,’ Matthew says, because he thinks he remembers reading that on the bag he bought at a wholesale store.

‘Wow. Fancy. I like it.’

Matthew, emboldened by the ease of the conversation thus far, senses an opening to do some sleuthing. He manoeuvres the conversation with the tact of a water buffalo.

‘That’s so interesting. What else do you like?’ he asks.

One of Sergio’s eyebrows lifts, his eyes narrowing slightly at the forward question, but to his credit he plays along.

‘Um… I like coffee,’ he says, smiling faintly. ‘I just got a new bike, so I’ve been riding a lot. And I like the beach.’

‘The beach!’ Matthew says, a little too eagerly, but he hates biking and coffee has already been covered. ‘Which ones? P-town? Fire Island?’ He lists off a few more names he has heard his friends mention, even though he has only been to Provincetown, and that was with his family as a child, so it does not count.

‘I’ve never been to those,’ Sergio says. ‘Mostly just the South Shore.’

‘No way,’ Matthew says, lifting his hand to calibrate the device at his temple, and sends a signal back ten seconds.

Blink. Blink.

Sergio is standing there again, coffee in hand, waiting for Matthew’s response.

‘You know,’ Matthew says, ‘these beans actually came from this great place on the South Shore.’

Sergio brightens. ‘No way. I live right by Wollaston.’

‘What a coincidence!’

‘Yeah. You’ll have to show me the place sometime.’

They share a look for a moment.

‘Well, I should finish this up. I’m moving faster than I thought. I’ll probably only charge you for two hours. Even with the coffee break.’ He laughs, soft and easy.

‘I won’t tell the boss you were slacking,’ Matthew says, adding a quick wink.

Sergio tilts his head slightly, a look passing over his face, one Matthew cannot quite read.

Matthew lifts his hand to his temple again. He calibrates the device. Blink. Blink. Sergio is back to work. The moment erased.

‘I’m just going to finish cleaning the kitchen,’ Matthew announces, realising he has not started cleaning it, let alone cleaned it in weeks. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’

Sergio nods without looking up, already absorbed in the task at hand.

For the next forty minutes, Matthew becomes extremely committed to being busy. The kitchen is barely bigger than his closet, but he finds ways to stretch the time he spends there. He wipes down surfaces that are already clean. He reorganises drawers that are nearly empty. He even disinfects the inside of the microwave. All of it in service of staying just on the other side of the wall from Sergio.

He is about to start scrubbing the corners of the sink with a toothbrush when he hears a satisfied exhale and the soft zip of a tool bag closing.

‘Wow,’ Matthew says, rounding the corner. ‘You’re really good at that. It would’ve taken me days.’

‘Oh, it was nothing,’ Sergio says. ‘I work construction. I build things for a living, so stuff like this… it’s easy.’

Matthew nods, trying not to take that personally.

Sergio picks up the book Matthew had been reading earlier. ‘God, this one destroyed me. It’s really good, though.’ He sets it down on the newly assembled table beside his empty mug. ‘Want me to take the boxes down on my way out?’

‘Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it,’ Matthew says quickly. He’s got big plans for these boxes as nightstands.

Sergio smiles and Matthew massages his thumb into the centre of his opposite palm.

‘Well,’ Sergio says, slinging his bag over his shoulder, ‘I should get going. Nice meeting you.’

He turns, and Matthew feels the moment as a slow, inevitable march towards an end. Time turns slippery. Sergio begins to shrink, already becoming a footnote in his day. He exhales, and in that breath it feels as though he is saying goodbye to someone he has known for decades.

The handyman reaches the door, then turns back. ‘Hey,’ he says.

Matthew’s chest tightens.

‘If you wouldn’t mind leaving me a review on the app,’ Sergio continues, smiling, dimples appearing. ‘It really helps.’

‘Totally,’ Matthew says. ‘Do you want a good review or a bad one?’

Sergio laughs. An easy, unguarded, luminous sound. He shakes his head and turns back toward the door. And something about that – maybe the laugh, maybe the fact that Matthew does not want to reach for the device at his temple and correct any part of this moment – gives him a sudden surge of momentum.

‘Hey,’ Matthew says. ‘Would you want to – maybe – trade numbers? We could… go to the beach sometime.’

It comes out uneven. He feels as if he has just plunged into icy water.

Sergio turns back again. This time really looking at Matthew.

‘How about next weekend?’ he suggests.

‘Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great.’

They step closer, phones out, the small choreography of exchanging numbers. Matthew watches as Sergio types his name in and hands the phone back. Sergio glances at Matthew’s screen. ‘See you next weekend, Matthew,’ he says, and this time he turns for real, stepping out into the hall, the door closing softly behind him.

For a moment, Matthew just stands there as the apartment falls quiet around him.

He sinks back into the one chair he owns, looking out at the FJÄLLBO and the BRIMNES. Assembled. Stable. Behaving themselves for now. Small monuments to moving forward.

Duncan who, he thinks, as he settles into the chair, folding up his legs into a comfortable position. A smile spreads across his face before he can stop it. Wide and a little ridiculous. He tries, unsuccessfully, not to get ahead of himself. Not to let his imagination run and sketch out an entire future from a single encounter.

He is right in the middle of failing at that when a flash of light cuts across his periphery.

An intense, violent wave of red. One he has never seen before.

Matthew jolts upright in his chair. ‘What the—’

He goes still, watching as the colour slowly recedes from the edges of his vision.

About the Author

C. H. Simko is a Chicago-based architect and writer finishing his debut novel. He enjoys writing stories that entertain first and linger afterward, exploring the choices and relationships that shape contemporary life. When he’s not writing or reading, he designs libraries and community spaces. Find him on Substack here and Instagram at @c.h_simko.