It was a simple surgery, those doctors dressed in drab colored clothes, hidden by paper masks twined behind their ears. Easy. Non-invasive. Not even a scar would be left as a remembrance of the time they cracked my skull and severed a part of me from the malleable organ. I wished there was something there to see or feel, something other than what it left me with. It was what I wanted, after all. It's all I wanted up to that point. To be rid of a part of myself that no therapy or medications could resolve, a part of me I grew to disdain as I became an adult, then even later into my twenties and thirties, a part that it took steel and a steady hand to exorcize.
He lies in my bed under the window of my one-bedroom apartment. Melancholy bleeds into the room. Another night I didn't sleep. Another night I spent pacing throughout the small space, glancing at me in the bed as I tried to comprehend what I've done, questioning my decision every hour on the hour. I wanted it, didn't I? Yes, yes. I feel better, but not better, not anymore. It's as though I had given birth forcefully, a thirty-two year old man pushed upon me in ignorance. If they would've warned me I would still be responsible for the part removed, I might've done things differently, might've chosen a different course, might've... could've.. should've... would've...
It doesn't matter anymore. He's here and I stand in the doorway looking at me, at him. The coffee pot percolates in the kitchenette. Hazelnut fills the air. He wears an old pair of plaid pajamas I got from the hamper. Initially I thought they wouldn't fit, but that's stupid, isn't it? He's me. Short, dark hair. Pale skin. Small ears. Deep, brown eyes. Long limbs. A carbon copy, but not... He can't be. He's only a part of my whole, the segment undesired.
All this worrying isn't doing any good. I wish he would wake up. He's been sleeping since we left the hospital two days ago. Maybe once we talk, maybe once I get to know myself, things might improve, things might finally progress. He rolls over, arm tucked under his hand, the other cradled against his chest. God, I didn't know I look so peaceful sleeping.
*
We sit at the little half-table against the wall in the living room. Rain spits on the windows. Black coffee in stained mugs sit before us, though neither of us touch them. He stares aimlessly and I watch him. Breaching the topic surrounding us isn't something I want to touch. I want us to seamlessly move into the next part of our relationship or whatever you would call what we have. But I've learned in the past to address the problem at hand instead of pushing it aside. If I would've learned it earlier on, I wouldn't be in this situation.
"So..." I say. "I'm sure you have questions."
"Not really," he says. "I'm the part of you you didn't want, right?"
"Not that I didn't want you, but--"
"This isn't like a child unplanned, or whatever." He blows on his drink. "I'm you, up until I was removed. I know I was unwanted. I was a..."
"Problem."
He nods. "Therapy didn't work. Meds didn't work. Exercising. Dieting. Nothing worked, but this."
"This," I repeat.
He sips from the mug. "I do have one question: What do we do now?"
"I don't know--"
"--because they didn't tell you that you would be seated with the part you didn't want."
"Yeah."
"Hm..."
I drink my coffee. It scalds my mouth, but I keep drinking because doing something eases the awkwardness, surrealness of this all. Set it down. If it wasn't illegal, I would consider putting him down. It's not murder, if it's myself. Would it be considered suicide? Either way, it wouldn't work. "I guess we would live together, right?"
"Makes sense. I don't have a job, and I don't want to look into how financials and legalities would work with two people who share the same everything."
My head hurts even just considering the phone call with the bank. "Agreed."
"This leads back to my question," he says. "What do we do now?"
I glance out the window. The slate sky's oppressive. Rain now a downpour. Thunder rumbles our mugs. Move onto the TV... If he's me, then he would like the same things as I do. Relief breathes through me. I won't have to deal with the rigmarole of picking a show that two different people enjoy. No more spending more time choosing than watching. And, food, as well. He likes what I like. What I don't like. And, and! He'll want to sleep at the same time I do, wake up, as well. Our schedules will be perfectly in sync. This could be good. This could be great. Easy. Simple. Like being alone, but... not.
"Wanna watch something?"
He glances at the clock on the VCR beneath the TV. "Lean On Us should be on now."
"I love that show."
He slips out of his chair. "So do I."
*
We watch Lean On Us, then Three to Shake begins afterwards. Lightning streaks the darkening sky. The framed photos of our family glint on the wall. Someone screams after a car horn blares. We sit side-by-side, transfixed by the sitcom. There's a strange tension in the air that isn't the humidity. It's not the obvious of me being with a copy of myself, but something else, something familiar.
The husband says a one-liner, and the laugh track plays. The wife screws up her face with a smile, and the husband pats her on the head before exiting to the other room.
What is it? I'm not uncomfortable. Not weirded out. Accepted what's happening and what has happened and will happen. This is my life now, there's not much to do about it... Is it...? No. That doesn't seem right, but, yet... My hand is near his on the cushion. His brown eyes glazed, watching the show. Do I want to...? I do. Yes. That's it. The familiarity of being with someone who I'm uncertain is into me as much as I am into them. Anxiety of untrodden land. The unknown. Possibility of being rejected compounded by the ridiculousness of being turned on by yourself.
The dog caked in mud darts through the doggy door into the kitchen, smearing dirt across the linoleum. The son-in-law's head pops through the doggy door, face streaked brown. The husband stands before him, and crosses his arms. Laugh track.
He has all my memories spanning from birth. I didn't consider the other side of me, the sexual one. Turned on by the same things. Have the same kinks. Same pre- and post-sex habits. I've hooked up with plenty of guys, but hooking up with myself... Would that be just masturbation? Would it be considered fucking yourself? There's too many puns I can use.
I reach for his hand--
He stands, the show cuts to commercial. "I'm grabbing water, do you want anything?"
"Shouldn't you already know?" I say without skipping a beat.
He laughs. "Yeah, you're right."
In the kitchenette, the stove light dimly illuminates him using the sink to fill our glasses. I look good. Arms more muscular. Chin more distinct. Leaner, but not scrawny. Beneath the pajamas, I already know I will find a four-pack, and small, but plump, pecks. Don't go to the gym, but I walk a lot. Also helps I don't eat much out of financial necessity more than anything else. Is this how people see me? Is my view of myself construed? I guess so. My dick hardens inside my pants, sliding against my thigh.
"Here you go," he says, handing me the cup. Sitting again, he drinks while the show comes back on. I can't focus on it anymore. Only him. Only me. Fuck, why am I doing this to myself? What sort of bizarre fetish have I discovered? Has this always been there, lurking in the depths of my mind? Was my condition hiding this, and now that it's severed, it can rise unheeded?
