By Travis Flatt

Michelle’s positioning and repositioning a large, black vinyl box, aluminum framed, like a microphone case, in our living room. When she asked to come by and talk to us about something called “Window Speak,” which I can’t find online, I expected, I don’t know, a powerpoint? A telescoping easel with a poster displaying a triangular graphic?

 I slip into the kitchen, where my wife, Jen, pours glasses of wine and finishes a cheese tray. 

“We’re not buying anything,” I say. In times of siege, it’s important to keep a united front. 

“I know,” she says.  

Jen and I carry the wine and cheese into the living room. I start to sit in my old, pink chair, which has been relegated to the corner and collects dust and awaits the garage. It’s a remnant from my bachelor apartment. Jen hates it. 

My plan is to sit across from Jen so I can signal to her, shut her down if she loses her mind and starts to sway. 

Michelle, however, insists we sit together on the couch. 

Jen and I plop down, thighs touching. I radiate skepticism, cross my arms. Michelle’s our friend, more Jen’s, she got laid off last month, and I get that. Jen warned me that this gig embarrasses Michelle — it certainly would me — hitting up her friends, selling vacuum cleaners or whatever.  

She starts with me. “Do you have any regrets?” 

I smile. God yes. Doesn’t everyone? 

“Mike,” she says, “what would you tell your younger self, if you could talk to him today?” 

What’s she pitching here? Some education thing? Charity work? 

“I don’t know — study harder?” 

Beside me, Jen smiles and scoops a hunk of goat cheese with a cracker. 

Michelle bends over and snaps the case latches. “Good answer. That’s what most people say. That’s a popular answer. Sixty percent of adult males say that,” she says, busy with pulling something with lots of parts, mostly metal squares and rubber hoses, out of the case, and setting them on our laminate floor. 

“What about you,” she says, obviously meaning Jen.

“Don’t date assholes?” 

That’s an uneasy joke, and we all laugh. She’s referring to her ex, a guy I’ve never met. He’s my stepson’s father. Invariably late on child support. If he pays at all. 

“What if I told you,” Michell says, assembling all the pieces of the growing doo-dad on the floor, “you could do that? It’s not impossible. Anymore.” 

The assembled thing’s the size of a vacuum cleaner, ironically. She's got it at her feet, standing up though, so it comes up to her waist. There’s no cord.  

“I’d say ‘hell yes,’” Jen says. 

Another nervous laugh.

A heavy silence with Michelle smiling proud, like she’s already won. 

But there’s the kid, Brayden, in his room, quiet on his Xbox. What’s been said is sinking in. 

I’m cooking up a way to be nice. “How would that work?”

I realize that’s exactly what I’m supposed to say. 

“I’ll show you,” Michelle says, and presses a button on the machine. There’s a soft whirring. The air by her shoulder goes soft, like a heat haze. “I’ve set this to October 2023, seven thirty, PM.” In the air, a fuzz overlaps the wall behind. Through this fuzz, you can see Michelle in our driveway, pulling a black case out of her Hyundai. 

Jen and I startle together. She drops her cracker on the floor. 

Michelle’s grinning. “Alright. Now, what would you like to say to me?” 

“...what the fuck,” I say. 

Michelle, who’s turned to look through the fuzzy window, nods. “That’s good. Say it louder, though.” 

“What the fuck?” 

Michelle looks up into the air, directly at us, directly at me, and waves. “Just getting ready, Mike!”

I feel queasy. 

“Cool,” I say, scanning the room for cameras. “How’re you doing that?”

 I lean in to Jen. “Are you in on this?” 

Jen, who’s gone pale, shakes her head. 

“That’s crazy,” I say. “How would you… you’re selling this?” 

The Michelle in our living room — Window Michelle has returned to unloading her car — beams and says, “That depends. Do you have any questions?” 

“Wait. Wait. Wait,” I say. “Alright, fine. Do the thing you said. Let me talk to the younger me.”

Living Room Michelle presses another button.Window Michelle freezes, pauses. 

Living Room Michelle says, “That comes with the Deluxe package. Are you interested in sampling the Deluxe package?” 

I sit gaping. 

Michelle unpauses the machine. “I’ll take that as a yes. Hey Michelle — bring in the Deluxe package.”

Window Michelle stops rolling the case and yells, “Gotcha, Michelle.” She goes back to the Hyundai and takes out a second, smaller case. 

  In the corner, on the old, pink chair, a second, smaller case appears with a champagne cork pop.  

By the time Michelle leaves, she’s sold us the Deluxe package, three add ons, and a humidifier.

We’ve signed on as consultants. 

What would you tell your younger self, if you could talk to them today?

About the Author