Broken love

For the salvage contest.


2. two

Some one knocks their shopping basket in to the back of my leg. I turn around to see the offender.

Instantly I see that I am some how related to her. With the exact same colour ginger hair as me and the almost same skin tone if it weren't for the sickly blue tint hers had, we could be cousins or something. Her face shape was oval, like mine, yet her skin seemed old and her eyes looked tired. Like she'd seen a lifetime already.

Now I look at her properly though, I see she is wondering the same thing. I would ask her but there is something more urgent bugging me.

"Aren't you going to apologize?" I use my sharp tone yet she doesn't even budge backwards. Everyone one is scared of me when I'm mad, why didn't she flinch?

“It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.”

Now I shrink back. What was that and why does it hurt when I don't even understand.

"What did you say?" I say keeping my voice even.

"P.G. Wodehouse. Book of 1914." She says it so matter of fact-ly.

"Well, that's nice. But my apology?"

"No," she glares at me, "your not getting one. You obviously don't understand what I previously said."

Mocking her 'matter of fact-ly' voice I retort. "Well you obviously don't understand what I said."

"Oh," she laughs, "but I do. I understand how your are trying to scare me. Yet, I don't have much of a life left to be scared by anyone of your IQ."

"My IQ? Tell you what. Piss off!" I scream the last words.

All I get though is a laugh. A loud, humored laugh. "Nice! Yeah, I love that. The word piss. So powerful and daunting." She's still laughing and we are drawing attention.

"Look. Just shut up for a second and answer me." She obeys, just to let me get out my question. "How are we related?" She stares blankly. Well, that's how it looks to me. "Me, you... Can't you see it? Our skin tones, our face shapes, hair colour... We have to be related."

Her face remains rock solid. No emotions show. What does give away her disguise is the small tear that runs down her face. Just one. That's all it takes for me to see that she does know. That she probably knew all along. She kept her calm while I freaked in her face. We are opposites with strange similarities that puts us somewhere in the middle.

This is the second I see it. I'm not that stupid. My IQ isn't too low to see it.

"Your, your me. My sister?"

Saying it out loud feels so unnatural and strained. Yet deep down in my frozen heart, a small patch is thawing.

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