Continued from here.
“So anyways, how did the rebellion or uprising or coup or whatever go?” I asked.
“Oh, you know how it is,” Casandra-3 said wearily, even though it was obvious to both of us that I had no idea how it was. “One minute you’re traveling to Dimension-5 on a routine terrorist squashing mission, the next minute you’re tracking the lead suspect in an assassination attempt on your transdimensional-5th self through the chaos of space and time.”
“I see how that could be trying,” I said in response.
“I was hot on his trail in Dimension-23 when David Benetar gave me the slip, and now I’m somewhat at a loss, to be honest.”
“That’s funny you should be chasing a David Benetar,” I said, getting up to pour myself another cup of coffee. “That was my ex-boyfriend’s name.”
I heard a shattering sound as Casandra-3 dropped her coffee mug onto the floor.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, startled. “Could you at least pretend to try not to break everything in my house?”
“David Benetar was here?” Casandra-3 hissed at me.
“My ex, yeah,” I replied, sitting back down at the table, “but I’m sure it’s probably not the same David Benetar.”
“What did he look like?” Casandra-3 asked.
“Tallish, blonde, grey eyes? We broke up two months ago.” I said.
“Do you have a picture?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not your guy.”
“Humor me. There can’t be that many tallish, blonde, grey eyed David Benetars running around.”
“Oh really, because there’s apparently thirty-seven of us,” I replied, but I went to get my computer anyways.
David Benetar popped up immediately in my Facebook search bar.
“Stalking your ex on Facebook is a little sad, don’t you think,” Casandra-3 snorted.
I clicked on his profile picture, which was a close-up of his big, doofus-y grin and his deep dimples.
“Is there a picture of him shirtless on here?”
I mindlessly clicked through 4 times without waiting for the images to upload. Casandra-3 mercifully ignored this.
The picture showed him standing on a mountaintop after a long hike. He wasn’t a very muscular guy, but he liked to show off the large tattoo splashed across his chest.
“That’s the guy. Dammit, 37! You dated this asshole?”
“I’ve had worse,” I said defensively. “Besides, he makes a really decent pie.”