Steven blurts it out: he cheated on her, broke into the lab, time-travelled back, fixed it. Technically, no cheating… they wouldn’t even know he broke in at work. Now it is all fine…except his conscience: fancy dinner and confession.
“You’re ridiculous. Time travel is impossible, Steven.” Her lobster tail is getting cold, drawn butter congealing.
He persists. “For the sake of this $200 meal, let’s pretend it’s not…. So are we good?”
Luann sighs, sucks a claw. “You think I care if it physically happened? If it temporally happened? You didn’t just fantasize. You screwed her – so you cheated. Pour more Perrier Jouet, asshole.”
“But it never happened! The universe has no record of it!” Steven looks triumphant: NASA-nerd triumphant, like when he beats a video game. She has no patience for it.
“Do you remember it?” Luann asks. “Did you get off?”
“So there’s record.”
“But I made it so I never even met her!”
“Plus, you are a work-breaker-inner and coverer-upper.”
Steven’s brow furrows and he considers the diagonal weave of his napkin as it curves at a fold.
“Okay, Mister space-time engineer. You didn’t meet her. You didn’t boink her. But I’m a therapist… and I know you will. Or did. Or whatever.”
Luann tries to enjoy her lobster. She knows her husband: he’s sneaking back to the lab and this meal will never show up on the Visa bill.
Steven knows she knows: time travel is better than bulimia.