I saw you down by the ocean last month.
You passed me when I had my head down.
I was pondering some song lyrics I had heard that morning,
but I caught a glimpse of your profile out of the corner of my eye.
I hesitated, but then called out to you,
and when you turned, I smiled and stepped forward,
one, two, three steps.
But, oh, it wasn’t you at all.
It was a strange woman,
someone who looked very much like you.
A doppelgänger.
She was understanding, or so it seemed.
She didn’t speak English, you see,
but her demeanor seemed forgiving of my misunderstanding.
She even smiled,
that kind of smile that is welcoming, but also guarded,
pleasant, yet cautious,
not an invitation exactly, but also not a dismissal.
I saw you again by the ocean,
just yesterday, in fact,
ever so briefly as I turned my gaze from the
gull with the missing wing
that was swimming by the shore
back to the boardwalk.
It was how your long black hair hung over your shoulder.
It shone your particular shade of ebony, just for an instant,
with a lingering after-effect like a photo flash.
I was reluctant to call out to you.
I would be embarrassed if you were the same wrong woman.
And I couldn’t be sure it was you.
I watched you as you walked away,
observed your gait, so familiar,
and your fashion, yes, so recognizable.
I was convinced.
I ran to catch up to you, called out your name,
but when you turned, it was a stranger,
a different stranger than before, mind you,
but someone I’d never seen before.
Another doppelgänger.
Sorry, I thought you were someone else.
She nodded and turned away.
A dismissal.
At home, I checked your Facebook feed
and saw that you were out of town.
When you’re back from your witches’ gathering,
would you like to go for coffee?
I have a funny story about mistaken identity to tell you.