I like to read books about twins. I just read about two guys, reared apart, with no contact with each other. They both grew up to be firemen, with wives named Bobby, a son Richard, and cavities in the same teeth. Then there's the Lawrence sisters, living a continent apart: at the moment one is getting an emergency appendectomy, the other wakes up with shooting pains in her side.
I understand some of what that's all about because I have a twin sister. Her name is Anne and mine is Michael and I'm not always sure where I end and she begins.
We grew up in a small out of the way town in New Hampshire. There weren't many kids around and we were each other's best friends.
We never fought. I mean never. When I tell people that, they say, "it's impossible", "you don't remember", "it's unhealthy", and things like that. All I know is, we never fought. She played ball with me, I played house with her, and we played "doctor" together: nothing serious, just the usual inquisitive kid's stuff.
We loved each other, right from the start. I can't remember a time when we didn't hold hands and take care of each other.
Our babbling to each other tuned into a crazy language only we could understand. I can imagine now how annoying it must have been for everyone, including our parents, to have kids around who were always laughing and talking in a "foreign" language. We didn't really care: we always preferred each other's company to anyone else's.
Although we had twin beds, Anne always came to sleep with me when were young. It seemed so natural; I thought everyone slept with arms around someone else. At first, our parents thought it was "cute"; then they became "concerned" and we ended up in separate bedrooms.
That didn't matter because we were all over each all day long. We liked touching each other, so we did it. When we were twelve and went to the "big" school, I remember how we practiced kissing with each other so we would be ready for other kids. Those may have been the sweetest kisses I ever tasted.
As we went into our teens, we literally watched each other grow. We always went into the woods by "our" stream to check on our progress. I watched and felt Anne's breasts, as they went from small swellings with puffy pink nipples, to the full, round 36D she is today.
It seems funny now, at nineteen to picture us standing naked in the woods at twelve, with my hand on her boob, her hand exploring between my legs, and having a conversation as if nothing strange was going on.
There's one other thing I remember very clearly about those times in the woods. I would be touching her and then I would always ask her the same question, every single time. "Anne, are you always going to let me do this?" It's like that great song "Will you still love me tomorrow", it's not enough that everything is perfect now; I also have to know it's going to be perfect tomorrow.
Of course things change: we were still very close and saw each other all the time, but it wasn't the same. We got older, went out with people, and got involved.
I had an on and off girlfriend until two days ago. Anne's boyfriend asked her to marry him, and that's when it hit the fan.
I was home alone when Anne came into my room. With a half smile she said, "Michael I have some news: Lee asked me to marry him. He also wants to go to work in his father's construction business in Nevada".
If it's possible to have twelve emotions hit you at once, they did then. I sort of stammered, "What did you tell him?"
"It was very strange because I thought I'd jump if he asked me: but when he did, for some reason, I started thinking about you. I told him I was overwhelmed and needed a little time. Maybe I just needed to talk to you."
At that moment I just looked at her. Let me tell you what I saw. A perfect beauty that I knew would remain that way to me no matter how long we lived. I've given the only statistic I know. She's a 36D. That interested me enough for me to ask her.
