Parallelism.

At times I worry about my parallel twin. Like a phantom limb, her life struggles to remain active. Conscious. She is the product of a crucial decision. The type of decision that can make one a criminal, a mother, a billionaire, or a corpse.

She was born when I walked out of the recruitment office.

She lost her virginity in Turkey. Got over her fear of guns swiftly, but with a nasty vomiting incident. Still prefers knives. Smokes a pack a day, but hides it well. She's quiet. Never cries. Excels at crossword puzzles. Has broken two ribs. She's 24. There's a diary hidden VIA a false bottom of a suitcase. It's a reference, should she forget a day. She doesn't. Rather, she quickly remarks where she was on 9/11 ("...drinking coffee in my apartment in Kansas City....") and has an elaborately woven memory of her 21st birthday. Her last name is different than mine.



She lies about 6 years of her life.

Yet, we're similar in a number of ways. These common factors keep us united. Her soul grazes mine. She asks for my hand.



Every time, I walk away.