On July 6, 2009, I met my doppelganger for the second time. The first was as I was exiting the MTR (or subway, or underground, depending on where you are). He was going up the escalator, I was going down.
I notice he’s wearing the same suit he did that day as he sits down opposite me. “Yeah it was a fluke we saw each other that day,” he says, passing me my cup of coffee. I reach for it, my thumb poking through a hole wormed through the sleeve of my hoodie. “Usually I just cab it, but the traffic…” He sips his tea (green) and I nod. “I tried to cut back and say hello, but I’d lost you by then.” I’m not sure why I didn’t do the same. In fact, I remember running. “The other me – us, even – would’ve liked to know.”
I’m startled. “You mean…?”
“Sure we’re not alone. The other is out in Florida.” He leans in. “He’s gay you know.”
“You’re joking.”
He laughs. “OK. But hey – why not? Decisions, man…”
I shift uncomfortably.
“Hey, relax,” he says. “You don’t want to be me. If you did, you already would be.”