a painting—was it something by Rembrandt, The Night Watch, per-
haps?—and turning to leave, and hearing the tiny interior voice: wait,
not yet. It is possible that this was the first time.
“Voice,” of course, being precisely the wrong word. It was a thought
that I heard, unspoken. As one hears one’s own, though knowing, in
this case, that it was not one of mine. Why? Because I did not intend
to think that? Because I did not agree with what it said? But this hap-
pens all the time, my thinking things I don’t intend or don’t believe.
Many of my thoughts, perhaps most of them, are things that I don’t
think at all.
Like living for months on a small tropical island and one day coming
across a set of footprints on the beach, one size larger or smaller than
your own, and realizing to your surprise that you are not surprised.
Those bent twigs you kept seeing, those tiny sounds in the leaves be-
yond the reach of the firelight—you or at any rate some version of
you, had known for some time that you weren’t alone.
We are twins, conjoined not in body but in mind. Where is it that we
come together? What is the hinge, the joint? The idea of loss, perhaps.
Or the memory of some pain, some cruelty committed by a person we
trusted.
He likes art museums. As do I. I like looking at the art, and he likes
looking at the women who come to look at art. Admittedly, we some-
times get bored and trade roles.
What must it be like, never having the power to decide, always
needing to plead, to file a request? I try to give him his way as much
as possible; I’m not unsympathetic. (He hates me for having written
that.) It could easily have been the other way around, after all. (If only,
I can feel him thinking.)
Do other people have this—this constant companion, this parasite?
(My god, he detests that word.) Why do they never talk about it? But
then again, why don’t I?
He doesn’t like the way I use my mouth. (Our mouth?) The way I
chew a piece of steak or taste a plum just off the tree. The way I kiss.
(Besides, he always thinks I pick the wrong women.) For the most part
I am able to ignore his attempts at backseat driving. What is that
irritating noise? I ask myself. Oh, it’s just the wind. It’s just a noisy
child some inconsiderate parent has brought to the restaurant where I
am trying to enjoy a quiet meal.
Do I behave better, knowing he’s watching? Doubtful. Some-
times, it seems to me, I behave worse. If he is impressed by this, he has
not let on.
And am I really sure that he has no control? Surely there have been
things I said that were said by someone else. I’m not that cruel, or
honest, as much as I’d like to be. Or as much as I say I’d like to be. If,
that is, it’s really me saying that.
What happens if one of us dies before the other? He would be
trapped, I suppose. Paralyzed. Locked in. And I, if he died? One time
he retreated for over a month, falling into silence, to make me think
that
that
he had gone for good. He intended to make me miss him. And, I
must confess, I did. The freedom to do what I pleased, with no one to
watch or judge—in the end, it was a little bit sickening.
I dreamed once that I was following a man, whom I intended to kill.
It was night, and I had a knife in my hand. I was going to slit the
man’s throat; there was no doubt as to what I planned, or that I would
have the will, when the moment came, to carry it out. I followed my
intended victim through the long poorly lit corridors of an abandoned
building, then out into a desolate street, around a corner and into an
alley, where I finally caught up with him. He screamed in terror as I
grabbed his arm, and turned—and my own face looked back at me.
Then I woke, shot like an astronaut into the black void of my
bedroom. I sat there for several minutes, breathing and letting the
peak of the panic subside, and then realized. That wasn’t my dream,
was it? I silently asked him. Some seconds passed before he answered.
No. That one was mine.
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