Just when the phone conversation was about to stall out, I remembered what I was going to tell him: “Today, at the airport, I picked up a sandwich with a label that said MADE FRESH FOR YOU TODAY 5/14.”
“But today is May 13,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“Must have been a fresh sandwich.”
“Actually, no. It was a little stale. But I have a theory. I think the sandwich was unstuck in time.”
My obsession with Time, which has grown over the past few years—perhaps to fill the void that occurred when I let go of God—was nothing new to him. He kindly let me continue.
“Obviously, there could be other explanations for it. It could have been a mistake or a conspiracy or maybe it was really an expiration date. But I am choosing to believe that it is yet another example of the way we misperceive time and space. Maybe it was simultaneously tomorrow and today, all at once. Maybe that sandwich had always been there, in a To-Go refrigerator at LaGuardia.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Well, it tasted like it anyway,” I switched the phone to my other ear. “But yeah, anything else on your end?”
