Sailing the Ship of Theseus Across the Border by Leon Tomova

Thirteen minutes into my interview, the man in the murky green shirt asks me where I learned to speak English so well.

I deliver a sea glass smooth response and take a sip of my latte macchiato to wash back the frustration that swells in my throat. He already asked me for my references and I had to fumble through an explanation of why I didn’t have them with me. I’m starting to stand out, and not to my advantage.

In the next lull of conversation, I excuse myself and go to the restroom.

I lock myself in a graffitied toilet stall and twist the knob on my nacre watch back until the two hands make a right angle between 9 and 12.

Normally, I wouldn’t go more than an hour back, but I really need today to go well. I should have rewound when the mail person missed my delivery, but I hoped the references wouldn’t come up. I can already hear the disapproval in my mother’s voice when I call to tell her how the interview went and the three-hour loop comes up. You’re pushing yourself too hard, she’ll say, in the vaguely tinny buzz of several thousand kilometers of distance. The same thing she said when I coasted through exam season on energy drinks and trail mix, and the same response will rattle against the backs of my teeth: I can’t do this otherwise.

Or maybe I just won’t mention it.

I click the knob back into its groove and feel the familiar lurch of my stomach as reality twists under my feet and unspools. For a moment, I panic that I’ll phase in while someone else is in the cabin, but then spacetime dons the trappings of light and matter like a well-loved hoodie slept in one time too many and I’m standing in the same stall, blessedly alone.

I take a long breath. The smell of bleach burns the inside of the cheek that I’ve chewed raw in my anxiety.

I open the door. A middle-aged woman touching up her lipstick yelps at the person with the short hair and unisex slacks who emerges from a stall that was previously unoccupied. I give her a tight smile, which seems to dispel her alarm.

I step in front of the mirror when the woman’s freed it and use some water to smooth my undercut back into shape. I’ve yet to find a gel strong enough to withstand time travel.

When I leave the restroom, the coffee shop is awash with rush hour activity. The table I took—will take in two hours and forty-five minutes—has been claimed by a blond man with wireless headphones and a tablet propped on his cappuccino cup.

I slink out without anyone noticing.

In the dappled sunlight outside, I pause to situate myself.

Stray mail easily tops my Top 10 Reasons to Time Travel list. Subleasing an apartment comes with an assortment of loopholes to wiggle through; having mail delivered to a mailbox that doesn’t have your name on it is among the worst of them. Especially when you’re waiting for time-sensitive paperwork.

My bike is not at the stand in front of the coffee shop—I haven’t arrived, and will not arrive here for another couple of hours—so I power walk to the subway station. The train is so full that there’s little I can do but cling to the handrail for dear life, but as soon as I’m back aboveground, I pull up the shipment details on my phone. I have fifteen minutes to get home before the delivery person.

I’m down to seven by the time I reach my apartment. I fish a notebook out of my bag and tear out an empty sheet. I write the tracking number and the correct mailbox in big blocky letters, then find some washi tape in the depths of my pencil bag and stick the note to the door. I don’t go upstairs—my three-hours-younger self is still in the apartment, and I must not come too close to them. People like me are essentially metaphysical ships of Icarus: rebuilding and replacing ourselves with the parts that help us stay on course. And you can’t have two ships sailing on the same current.

My note does the trick. The mail person comes; the envelope is deposited in the mailbox; a green checkmark in the tracker informs me that the delivery has been finalised.

Now I’ll have my references.

There’s one more thing I need to do here before I can go to my interview.

I tear a second sheet from my book and write a well-practiced note on it before I fold it into a little boat. I open the mailbox and take the thick envelope, leaving the boat in its place. I wonder how Theseus would feel about his ship if he was one of the parts that could be replaced. I head to the nearby coffee shop to kill time before my interview.

The truth is: there can be only one me. Technically, there is only one; I’m a rope wrapped around itself in a figure-of-eight, but at this crossing point, we are two. Which is why the me who’s still back home will find a paper boat in their mailbox with blagodarya ti written on the inside. They’ll take a long walk, grab something to drink. Then they’ll kick back and wait for spacetime to right itself and swallow them in its tide.

I hope it’s a good way to go.

I try not to think about what this all says about me: that the version of me that’s closest to perfect is the one that’s sent away all the wrong ones. Or what will happen when I find a paper boat among my own things.

When I enter the coffee shop, the cute barista is bringing out a tray of muffins—three blueberry, three chocolate. He greets me with a smile that ripples in my chest cavity. He’s a foreigner too, evidenced in the smooth edges of his vowels and the way he lights up when I let some of my own accent spill. I order a medium drink and he makes me a large. I get one of the muffins. I debate giving him my number, decide against it, then think about a braver version of myself circling back from the future to replace me, and I scribble it on a cup sleeve. Perhaps he could make something of all the ship pieces that don’t quite fit together.

I arrive for my interview with my references at the ready and the man in the murky green shirt stands up to greet me. “Welcome,” he says. “I’m glad you could make it.”

© 2023 Leon Tomova

About the Author

Leon Tomova is a first-generation Slavic immigrant based in Germany. When not working on their PhD thesis, they write stories about queer mayhem and triumph. In their time away from the keyboard, you can catch them at the gym, dancing, or sipping an iced oat milk latte. Find them on Bluesky @leont.bsky.social.