In the past which is also the future, you mean?
Right.
Okay, so what next?
Well, that’s the thing. He sees her, and now he has to say something so she’ll know it’s really him.
Like a time loop situation?
Sure.
But how can she possibly know it’s him?
She’ll just know. But that’s not the point; the point is, she wants him to say something very specific.
Okay, like what?
Maybe she wants him to say: He’s been waiting a long time for her.
But she’ll hate that. She’ll think it’s a line.
No, no, she’ll know he means it. She knows him, remember?
But she doesn’t.
But she does.
How?
She just does. So anyway he’ll say it, and she’ll know he wouldn’t just say that. He doesn’t just say things like that.
He really doesn’t, but still. Seems a little corny, doesn’t it?
Okay, okay fine. Then he should also bring up bees, probably.
Bees? First thing?
Of course. Remember? She already knows about the bees, even though she doesn’t.
This is getting complicated, he thinks.
No, it isn’t, it’s … Fuck, she knows what it is. It’s a fucking perfect circle.
There are no perfect circles, Regan.
Yes, there’s one, and it’s this one: They fall in love because they’re always in love.
That’s circular, not a circle.
He can believe whatever he wants; she knows it’s a perfect circle.
Okay, but still. Say he accepts her premise—what does that actually mean?
（Triumphantly:） It means that they, as they are right now, could be their future selves’ pasts.
（A pause.）
He is beyond lost.
Okay, look. She’s trying to say that maybe an older version of them has already turned a corner, and so they met again in the armory of the Art Institute, knowing but not knowing that the moment they met was something they’ve done before. Does that make sense?
（He makes a humming sound, like, Maybe.） How many times?
What?
How many times have they done this before?
She can’t possibly know that, Aldo, and besides, that’s not the point. The point is, maybe it works or maybe it doesn’t, but they just keep trying and doing it over until it does. Right?
That sounds like a lot of uncertainty.
Of course it is! Everything is uncertain, he and she both know that by now, but there is a smaller certainty within all of the uncertainty, which is: The Truth.
And what, he asks, is The Truth?
That she will keep turning corners until she finds him.
（He is quiet for a moment before he says:） Okay.
Okay what?
Okay, he accepts her premise.
And?
And what?
And how does he feel about it?
He’s glad she said it. She explained it better than he could have. He would have tried to graph it.
As a reminder: if he graphs it, it’ll just be a perfect circle.
Cycle.
It’s a circle, Aldo.
Okay fine, she’s poked enough holes in his theories for one day, he accepts.
He concedes, just like that?
He accepts, yes. Just like that.
Okay good, she’s too tired to keep explaining anyway. It’s been a long day.
Has it? For him, too. Oh and he saw her art, by the way.
What did he think?
He thinks he always knew she was an artist.
（Groan. But fondly.） First of all, she’s only an artist because he said she was an artist.
Does that mean he’s a genius because she said he was a genius?
Look, whatever they are, it’s irreversible. She is this version of herself because of him, and vice versa. There’s no changing that now.
Yeah?
Yeah.
You’re sure?
Yes.
Okay, good.
Really?
Yes.
（Silence.）
（The wind screams in the background while a driver shouts at a pedestrian. The Cubs have won and the L is delayed, the Red Line packed tight like sardines; a city beginning to sweat looks up at the sun overhead and rejoices.） So anyway, is she hungry?
God yes, she’s starving. Is he going home now?
Yes, he’s going home, will he see her there?
（She waits for a second, half a heartbeat; the time it takes to let a smile flicker.） Yes. She’ll see him at home.
THE NARRATOR, THE AUTHOR: Aldo and Regan hang up in the same moment without saying goodbye, because they do not need to. They have each unlocked a hidden door today, and though hers is different from his and vice versa, the contents within it are no less valuable from one to the next.
It is unfortunately worth noting that he remains not a particularly good teacher. He will shortly choose to shift his research to something with more math and fewer people. Her showcase triptych, ultimately reviewed as, “visually pleasing if a bit lacking in narrative clarity or substance,” is not nearly as good or as valuable as either of them is willing to believe. Her clinical mood disorder does not disappear because it can’t and “healthy” for them will always be a relative term. There are still bills to be paid and things to be said and they will argue in shades of purple as early as tomorrow, but they are different now; changed. After they hang up the phone and he wipes a bead of early summer from his forehead while she adjusts the slightly sticky strap of her purse, he will take a right onto Harrison Street while she takes a left onto Michigan Avenue and both of them will opt to walk briskly, as if they have places to be, which they do.