I saw her when I was supposed to be having lunch but had decided to go on a long walk instead. She was me. The more beautiful version of me, with the hair that did everything I always tried to get my hair to do, and the clothes I pinned on Pinterest but couldn’t afford, and eyes the same color as mine but with more glitter like the difference between a .35 karat and .5 karat diamond. I followed her down Duvall Street past the museum of atlases and the little bagel shop where I almost got engaged and I leaned against a wall while she stood on the corner with this sad little feeling in my gut like I was missing out on seeing the fireworks.
They say that everyone in the world has one of these out there—someone who looks a lot like them, almost interchangeably. I always wanted to find mine—I figured I would—I looked forward to the day I bumped into her in a thrift store or at a book reading. I always thought I’d be so excited about it—we’d have a long talk and discover our many other mirroring eccentricities.
As I watched my other almost-me struggle to wave down a cab, I just felt bothered. God, I thought, you really tilted the scales on this one. I felt like the sloppy first draft. I chewed on my lip a little bit and when the wind picked up I walked up beside her. I put thumb and pointer finger between my lips and blew a good loud whistle. A cab pulled up and I motioned it was hers to have.
She laughed. Thank you. I’m so bad at that, she said, as she opened up the back door. I was starting to turn away but, I love your freckles, she said. I always wanted freckles. I thought it was like, having your own set of constellations everywhere you went. She laughed again. Or fireworks, you know, before they fade. She finished getting in the cab and she was gone, my almost match.
I tucked my hands into my jeans and turned to look at my reflection in the glass of the nearest store. In the back of my head I could hear God grumbling about how no one appreciated the details anymore.