Copies

A doppelganger. They say everyone has one. People usually find their double by chance, like Charles Darnay at his own trial. Upon prying inquiry, discover their lookalike has a completely different lifestyle. Not always. Sometimes it’s not just the resemblance that’s uncanny. Take those gingers, both baseball players I believe; they even have the same name. My god, so cool.

I wondered what my ringer was like. Hmmm…happily married! That would be something worth analyzing—like this novel. I went back to where I left off, annotated a few pages, and took another break.

A Tale of Two Cities. So many of my musings those days were inspired by its plot. The experiences it details are relatable, transcending time. And so were moments like this, enjoying a gorgeous day overlooking the emerald blue of the Pacific: Del Mar, California. This seaside bluff is my favorite in San Diego County. It offers an ascending park with grass fields surrounded by meandering walkways, pine trees and palms, wooden benches, and squirrels that perforate sandstone below a rope barrier. We’re not supposed to feed them, so say posted signs.

There’s this guy. Quite a regular. Got there twenty minutes ago. He passed by—I had my head down. When he wasn’t looking out to sea, at surfers or beachgoers, he snatched glances of me. I feigned not noticing. He was a hat lover. So far, he’d worn a trilby, newsboy, and then, Padres cap. Dressed nicely. Always in trendy pants and shirts. He sat legs apart on an adjacent bench, left arm neatly folded over the backrest. He stared at me again, and I didn’t like it.

I told him,

“You gonna say something, or just keep gawking?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, startled. “It’s just…you look familiar. Have we met?”

Classic, I thought. I turned toward him keeping Dickens open, cover resting on my lap, and said, “I don’t believe so.” I got a good look at his face: white, wrinkle-free, boyish—not bad. Brown eyes like coconut shell. Early twenties, easily. I continued reading.

“That’s a nice sun hat.”

It was straw, nothing special. “Thank you.” Silence. It lasted nearly a minute. Meanwhile, I soaked in a sudden gentle breeze. My brown, straight hair riding air currents one way then another, before sinking onto a slender, pale neckline.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said, scanning away then toward me.

I gave him a courteous smile. “Yes, it is.”

“I’m Ty, by the way.”

“Andrea,” I said, reluctantly. I should’ve just nodded, and not given a stranger my real name. I was too trusting; it was my biggest flaw. But I was working with a psych. I heard her advice run through my mind: “Maintain appropriate boundaries.”

“I’ve seen you here before—nose in a book—every time.” He half-smiled, producing a thin, long dimple ending at a rounded chin.

“I come here to read.” The not-so-subtle hint flew over his head.

“Whatcha reading?”

I used a finger as a temporary bookmark, then closed, and rotated the book, showing him the mass market, paperback edition cover.

“Oh yeah—yeah. I’ve heard of it. About the French Revolution, right?”

“Yes, but it’s—”—I fought off professional instincts— “never mind.” I grabbed my phone, and checked the time: 6:10 p.m. Getting late, I thought. Still had papers to grade. Better get going, grab dinner. I placed my belongings inside a brown leather tote bag and inserted an arm, letting long handles rest on a t-shirt-covered shoulder, and rose. “Be seeing you, Ty,” I said, looking back.

“Count on it, Andrea,” he said, with a sly smile.

Oh jeez, I thought, walking away. He’s confident—I’ll give him that.