Doppelgänger

My problem is that I have a doppelgänger. I’ve never met her, but I know she’s out there. Just today, a friend thought she saw me at the grocery store. She was going to say hi to me, but when she saw me reach for a big family size box of Tyson chicken nuggets, she got confused. I knew it was Tyson, she said. It said so on the box. So I knew it wasn’t you. She looked like you though. She even had your hair.

See, I’m a vegetarian. I haven’t bought a box of Tyson chicken nuggets since I was a college student. These days, I am morally against most meat consumption, especially from factory farms. My doppelgänger is always doing things that I wouldn’t do.

Recently, I offered to dog-sit for my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend. It’s the kind thing to do, after all. It’s something that a good person would do. I would be the picture of grace, I thought.

I wore a new sweater, made only of sustainably sourced natural fibers. I spent hours cleaning. I mopped the floors with a plant-based solution until they sparkled. I imagined dazzling both of them with a tour of my new house. I wouldn’t boast, of course, but I purchased it with a sizable down payment of my own money. It’s a spectacular feat these days.

Together they arrived on my doorstep with a little dog wrapped up like a newborn baby in her arms. I welcomed them in.

The first thing she said to me was this: Have we met before? I think we’ve met before.

No, I assured her, we haven’t met before.

But she wouldn’t let it go.

No, no, we’ve definitely met before!

I couldn’t agree with this untruth. No, I don’t think we’ve met before, I said. She looked confused. Oh, okay. There was an awkward pause. I tried to smile at my ex-boyfriend but he wouldn’t look me in the eyes.

So, do you want a tour of the house?

We were all still standing in the foyer and the little dog was still huddled in her arms.

Well, we’ve got to get to the airport soon…

Oh. Of course.

This is Jason.

Jason?

He’s our little boy.

She set Jason down on the ground. He tottered away from her. Jason had a smushed face, one that almost looked like it was melting. Flaps of skin hung from his cheekbones. Every step he took, he exhaled in a horribly guttural way. I was disturbed, but I didn’t let it show. I was the picture of grace, after all.

She gave me an exhaustive list of instructions. My ex-boyfriend hovered near the door, silent. I couldn’t take my eyes off the dog. Where were his nostrils? How was he breathing? Why was his name Jason?

Then they left, and I was alone in a silent but sparkling house with a snorting pug, while my ex-boyfriend flew to Italy for a romantic vacation with his new girlfriend.

And, well, he’s not really my ex-boyfriend. In truth, we only ever kissed. Once. On New Year’s Eve. I wondered if his new girlfriend knew about our kiss. I wondered if she thought I was the picture of grace. I wondered if he could tell that I’d moved on too, that I was no longer thinking about our kiss, at night, alone in bed.

Our New Year’s Eve kiss was kind of drunk. Kind of sloppy. I don’t remember much, actually, although it might have involved some handsy stuff in a dark corner of a bar. I don’t usually do things like that. But I know my doppelgänger does. I know she kisses strangers in bars all the time. There’s one over on 8th Ave. It’s a dingy, dirty basement bar, where you can play pool and smoke cigarettes inside. I think it’s her favorite place to hang out. I hear she’s there a lot. And when she kisses strangers, she does it right there on the barstools. Or in the middle of a game of pool. Men or women. And everyone always kisses her back. I wouldn’t know, though. I’ve never seen her.

My friends warned me not to go to the dingy, dirty basement bar. They think that meeting my doppelgänger would cause something in the space-time continuum to rip. The fabric of the timeline or something. There would be a butterfly effect. No, they told me. Stay away from that bar.

But sometimes I’m curious. I wonder: what does she drink? Is she a Miller girl or a Coors girl? Does she smoke cigarettes? I would never smoke cigarettes. What does she wear? Is it a short plaid skirt? With black platform boots? If I saw her, would she kiss me? Would she taste like an ashtray? Would I recognize her? Would she recognize me?

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Cheyenne Rayne is a writer living in Nashville, TN. She is originally from northwest Wisconsin. She holds a B.A. in English from Belmont University. Her work has previously appeared in Rejection Letters, Swing, and more.