DUO

They’re twins, which means you’ve got to take for granted that they’re exactly, unimaginably identical, have the same metabolism (more or less), same fitness levels, identical workout programs, same stamina, sustenance, the same number of muscles in the same configuration, and the same amount of bones of course. Spouses (girlfriends included) are numb to individual scents, character in general and penis sizes. One of them could have bigger feet, but that wouldn’t stop the other from wearing the same pair of shoes (or an identical pair if required, equally wrinkled, equally smooth).

A higher count doesn’t imply a sequel, and it’s past midnight.

“One hour”, he said pointedly.

“Lydia-”

“Lydia?”

He stopped, dead. “Don’t tell me-”

“It’s Friday.”

Twin One stood outside the park which Twin two had to cut across (to save time). Walk transfer from green to grey, footsteps muffled by the motorway. Secrecy doesn’t imply quiet, for not all the loudness is heard. Except mutually, of course.

“She was surprised.”

“I said I had work.”

“No wonder then-”

Two men identical in all aspects, but it’s not a paparazzi world to stand up and make proofs. And they just walked along.

“And yeah”, Twin One said, hands in pockets, “Tara-”

“I’ll deal with it”, came the response, although grave.

“You know I’ll miss her too”, he replied. “And not to mention Her-”

“-quirk in colour-tones?”

“-bie Hancock.”

Curious look on the face, unfettered look to the ground observed.

“What made your day?”

“Ammo hunt”, he replied. “Wild goose chase, what made yours?”

“Breaking and Entering, busted stuff, frenzies”, he sulked. “Got it all?”

He nodded. “Loudest yet: My place.”

“You mean my place?”

They paused for a while, switching positions. “Yeah, your place.”

“Good”, they said together, looking down.

Distant looks don’t always suggest pensive thought. Face-to-face could sometimes mean unconscious spontaneity.

“The organization...”

“The thrill...”

“Life’s good”, he said and looked at his brother. “You’re good.”

“No”, came the reply. “We’re good.”

Roads diverged, both taken. ‘He’ took the one ‘he’ took before, and ‘he’ took the one which ‘he’ came from, pats on the back past.

“Mind the sniffer!” he shouted. “We smell.”

“And Suzanna!” he shouted back, stopping. “Smells good!”

He smiled, he smiled, and they both left. One to the right, and one to the left of his left.

SOLO

Nothing meant, everything implied, and that doesn’t imply assumption but only just what is implied: Implication. Conversations don’t need glasses or wine and a table’s only for one who doesn’t know where he should put his hands; pockets hide incompetent gesticulation, longer hair shows lesser face and that’s lesser space you could be seen sweating out of. Glasses are meant to come in cheap, for photo chromatic acts against utility, and the source of light isn’t always the moon or a light-bulb or a crystal chandelier: There do exist sub-level sources and the sun could be one if not distinctly seen.

A conversation doesn’t necessarily call for two or more parties.

“How about a beer?”

“You drink?”

“You don’t?”

A chair’s occupied while another’s let free, a physical demonstration of equilibrium. The beer order was never public and hence was never in the same vicinity as ‘confusing’.

“You should wear an eye-patch.”

“I was thinking lilac.”

“Beige”, he stressed. “Quit the knee-jerk.”

“More ankle and shin…”

“…and calf muscle.”

“And calf muscle, yeah.”

The moment of publicizing personal interest came around, the argument being necessity rather than roast & ground or human-made.

“Caffeine”, I shook my head. “I’m a little Stuart there.”

“Harry Tuttle”, he said, humming the ‘Brazil’ tune.

“Nah, it’s kind of more Daniel Dunne.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Blow some smoke”, he said. “I’d get you that.”

“It’s the fire that’s missing”, I said. “Not the smoke.”

And he blew some himself, although I’ve never seen him take in any. The meandering prospect of time limit crashes caught up with both, a second in between.

“Monday night”, he said, getting there first.

“Morning to come.”

“What’s the music tell you?”

“Jazz”, I said. “Or wait… Plantation blues.”

“You’re extinct.”

“And you’re not my woman.”

I stood up, watered myself with both the glasses, straightened his chair, set my hair right, laughed at his and walked my way in as opposed to an outside cliché.