Talking to Myself

Talking to Myself

I sat in my living room, reading a good book. I took a drink of soda. Then a bite of a sandwich. A lovely quiet afternoon ahead of me, with nothing but a good book, a snack, the rain outside, meant peace and serenity to my soul.

Dog came to me. She whined a bit, her paw raked my hand, as if begging me to come with her.

“Really? Go lie down. You just came in the house, Bitsy. I’m busy.”

Bitsy obligingly slunk back to her bed in the corner.

I reached for my soda. What? It was there a minute ago. Then I went for the sandwich. Both missing from the table.

“Bitsy! Did you steal my food?” She looked at me, wagged her tail.

A quick check of her mouth, no food there. And no dog could master a cup. Mysterious since I’m alone in the house. Did I space out for a few moments, put the cup in the sink? The doctor says that happens sometimes after surgery.

I wander around the house. Then I spy the culprit sitting at the kitchen counter. It turns.

“You didn’t finish your sandwich, so I did.”

Here I am, talking to me. A perfect doppelgänger. “Who are you? Why are you in my kitchen?”

“I am you. Don’t you recognize yourself?”

“I look a bit fatter in person.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Point well taken," I said.

“Get to the point”

“What is the point?”

“That you’re talking to yourself.”

So I walk back to the living room. Leave myself behind. She’s boring anyways. I take a nap, hoping when I wake up all will be back to normal.

But when I wake, I am still here. Sitting beside me.

“Back to what we were talking about…”

W/C 296