Sometimes the world’s default is set to injustice. Mayra was everything I desired in another. She was smart, kind, and graceful. Even when walking from one room to another, she moved with intention, floating in a way that seemed to defy gravity. I could watch her for hours and never tire of what would surely strike others as humdrum and boring. I found her inspirational, and the fact that she was a successful public relations executive was only a pleasant afterthought. What mattered was who she was as a person. Finally, I had met the one who ignited continual passion. And this was the great shame of it all.
Every time that we were together, she told me it was hard for her. Apparently, I was the doppelgänger of one of her cousins, Dermot, the one that had snapped one day and killed his sister Katie, that selfsame Katie who had been Mayra’s very favorite cousin of all. Crazy Dermot had been sent away for a good long time, but now that we had met, Mayra said it was as if he was back in her life somehow.
I offered to change the way I wore my hair, to grow a beard, anything, but she said it still wouldn’t matter. I could be his twin. A dead ringer for this wringer of the dead. And every time she saw me, she winced, thinking about her favorite childhood cousin and all the good times they had had together. It made her sad to realize the tragic waste of the horrific event. And while this erstwhile twin was to blame, somehow it was my lot to suffer as a result.
When she started crying, I knew it was my cue to leave. I’d return to my sad Park Slope studio, sharp stucco walls mocking me and my destined loneliness. I wasn’t a bad person, but I resembled one and that was bad enough. At nights, I’d console myself with the logic that there must be many others in similar situations. Fact: people looked like other people, and therefore, second fact: not all of those other people were angels. By the next beer, I was off pondering if maybe there was some support group I could attend, Doppelgängers Anonymous, with a twelve-step program that could lead me out of my ill-fated doldrums. I surfed the net without luck.
The next morning Mayra texted me her farewell: “2 much 4 me to handle,” she said. I responded that I understood, but I was lying.
The next three years I searched in vain for another Mayra. I tried online services; I let others fix me up. There were some nice people, sure. And I made a real effort, but it all seemed awkward, forced. Too much effort defeats the purpose.
When I had about given up on the idea of finding companionship, I happened to notice a woman on the train platform who looked a lot like Mayra. She moved the same way. I could have sworn it was her. I went over and introduced myself. She said her name was Ciara, but something in her voice set off an internal alarm. She was dangerous, I knew, and would prove it given half a chance. Something about her suggested she was one sharp object away from irreversible tragedy. There was evil, pure evil lurking in her eyes, a hint of things askew inside.
But that didn’t stop me from getting her number. Maybe my gut instinct was wrong. I called. She wants to go shopping together for a new set of knives this weekend. She told me where to meet her.
I’ll be there, hoping for the best.
is a widely published poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. He is the author of five collections: Small Consolations (Aldrich Press), Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press), Rocky Landscape with Vagrants (Cyberwit), A Careful Contrition (Shanti Arts Publishing), and most recently, Inside Outrage (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). His chapbooks include Memory Marries Desire (Finishing Line Press), and The Covalence of Equanimity (SurVision Books), a winner of the 2019 James Tate International Poetry Prize.
