Consternated visibly now, Clairefontaine said: “Don’t know how to explain this, but there’s a kinship after-the-fact between those of us who recover to live and those of us that live to recover. But just as more, there is an uncanny relationship between us and anyone who has really and truly lost time. It doesn’t matter how much time, What matters is how profoundly gone that time has gotten to be. Anymore, after you lose time–and I do n-o-t expect this to make sense, or even be ok, you’re not really human anymore. You’re post-human. And so is your twin. And yes, you have a twin now.”

Gold at times in the Sunday and sad mountain light, earthy brown hair expressed itself  across her shoulders down to the hands where she clasped the leaf.  He could discern that the leaf was a true, almost plumb maroon, and it matched the distant eyes that were now hers and that regarded him almost apologetically. Almost. But not. Just like the truth about her having a twin: almost, but not.

Then I guess we’d ought to take turns guessing what you’re doing somewhere else.  But who’s turn is it, and how do we start?