Marcel Winatschek

She Moves Like Me

Something unsettling happened at the Knaack this weekend. I saw myself—but female, which somehow made it worse. Same black Adidas shoes, same trousers, something close to my belt, one of those green New Yorker Classic shirts. She moved through the room exactly the way I move through rooms. She laughed that specific stupid way I laugh. She even picked her nose the same way I pick mine.

The differences: blonde. Could actually sing. Two points where the universe apparently took a different turn.

I was too much of a coward to go up to her. Partly because I didn’t know what to say, mostly because I genuinely feared what might happen if we made contact—matter meeting antimatter, a structural collapse, the lights going out globally. If she’s at the Knaack again this weekend I’m going to walk up to her, say hello, and pass along greetings from our mother. And if the world goes dark immediately after, you’ll know whose fault it is.