In cities a dozen time zones away, we run into doppelgangers of old friends, flesh and blood ghosts from home come to trouble the comfortable routines we had successfully established here, corporeal hauntings of desires so neatly packaged away in one of the moving boxes left in the home before last. He has something like your eyes (they are large and almond-shaped; in the dark, I cannot count his eyelashes), his torso is of a length like yours and about as slender, he holds his body loosely the way you do, shoulders opening easily into as thoughtless and graceful a wingspan. His skin is several shades lighter than yours, his right cheek dimples deeply when he smiles. He has a generous mouth, his lips are riveting. He is so many approximations of you, and seems happier than you, asks kinder questions than you do. I have to don a mask to speak to him, to remove myself from myself for these polite small talk chats, else I run the risk of falling headlong in love with your apparition — a person, a thing that exists in neither of the places we are.