Part 6 (2/2)
”Sounds like you're not too keen on her.”
”Yes.”
”You have any brothers or sisters?”
”I have a twin sister, that's it.”
”Where is she?”
”About thirty thousand light-years away.”
Saying this, she laughed neurotically, pus.h.i.+ng her gla.s.s to the side.
”Talking bad about one's family is definitely no good. Makes me depressed.”
”Don't worry too much about it. Everyone's got some burden to bear.”
”Even you?”
”Sure. I'm always grasping cans of shaving cream and crying uncontrollably.”
She laughed happily at this, looking as if she hadn't laughed that way in who knows how many years.
”Hey, why are you drinking ginger ale?” I asked, ”Did you swear off drinking?”
”Yeah, well, that was the plan, but I think it's okay now.”
”What'll you have?”
”Chilled white wine.”
I called J over and ordered another beer and a gla.s.s of white wine.
”Hey, what's it like to have an identical twin?”
”Well, it's kinda strange. Same face, same IQ, same size bra, you're aggravated all the time.”
”People mix you up a lot?”
”Yeah, 'til the time we were eight. That was the year I lost a finger; after that, n.o.body mixed us up again.”
Saying that, like a concert pianist concentrating, she set her hands down on the counter, her fingers lined up neatly. I took her left hand, and gazed at it carefully in the light from the recessed lighting. It was a small hand, cool as a c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s, looking completely natural, as if it'd been that way since birth, four fingers lined up happily. That naturalness was almost a miracle, at least it was more charming than if she'd had six fingers.
”My pinky was cut off by a vacuum cleaner's motor when I was eight years old. Popped right off.”
”Where is it now?”
”Where's what?”
”Your pinky.”
”I forget,” she said, laughing, ”you're the first one to ever ask me that.”
”Doesn't it bug you, not having a pinky?”
”Yeah, when I put on gloves.”
”Other than that?”
She shook her head.
”I'd be lying if I said I never worried about it. Still, I'm only as worried about it as other girls are about the thick hairs growing on their necks.”
I nodded.
”What do you do?”
”I'm in college. In Tokyo.”
”You're visiting home.”
”Yeah.”
”What're you studying?”
”Biology. I like animals.”
”Me too.”
I drank the rest of the beer in my gla.s.s and nibbled on a few French fries.
”Hey...there was this famous panther in Bhagalpur, India who, over three years, managed to kill 350 people.”
”And?”
”So they called this panther hunter, an Englishman, Colonel Jim Corvette, and he shot that panther and one hundred twenty-five panthers and tigers. Knowing that, you still like animals?”
She snuffed out her cigarette, then took a sip of her wine and gazed at my face as if admiring it.
”You're definitely a little strange, you know?”
21
<script>