Jay Goldman

The O’Connor twins. Objects of intense teenage lust. Keepers of the fantasticaly ludicrous twin sister fantasy flame. Bearers of an uncanny familial resemblance and near mythical aura of sexuality, capable of rendering even the most devout into quivering puddles.

The stuff of legends, at least in Smith Falls. Left for bigger and better. Pictured on billboards, seen on TVs, heart stoppingly flipped to in glossy magazines. Spectacular arcs of twin careers carving trails in the very firmament. Now legends well beyond Smith Falls. Well beyond even beyond itself.

And now, here, today, in this very greasy spoon. The bell over the door rings out and they breeze in. Jim is wiping down the already well wiped counter. A moment, frozen, blinded by the intense sunshine that escorts them into the dark interior. Confusion rings as well. A brief panic clutching at his guts as he’s transported fifteen years backward, fumblingly grasping at a glimpse of teenaged O’Connor twins coming through that self-same door. They seemed somehow smaller then, as though their incredible ascendancy had somehow inflated their very bodies.

Jim watches them glide up to his counter. He is suddenly a simulacrum of the easygoing small town shop owner, thrust into a limelight that demands suaveness and sophistication. He drops his ragged cloth, bends to retrieve it, thinks better, straightens, and finally places sweaty hands palm down on the cool counter.

“Coffee?”

His voice a croak, the creak betraying him. He can’t look directly at them but his sideways eyeballs inform the realization that he can no longer tell them apart. One is certainly Sinead, the other definitely Cherylynn. Was Sinead taller? Cherylynn slightly more radiant? They smile in perfect synchronicity.

“Hello James”, they purr. “We’ve missed you terribly.”

He is flooded with the reminder of things: the perfect coexistence of their voices, buzzing directly up his spine. Working in this shop all summer, mundane days broken only by their sunlit arrivals. The way their legs wrapped the counter stools. Plate after plate of french fries, individually blessed with ketchup and eaten with the most discriminant of bites. Their indescribable smiles, brought on by teasing, directed at him and then reflected as his confidence dawned. Glorious weekends spent lazing by the lake, floating on the raft, watching their skin bronze and the traces of sweat in their perfect creases.

James reaches below the counter and returns with three coffee cups. He realizes that his life has been autumnal since the day they left. He watches the coffee cascade into the cups, briefly thrilling in its gravity defying fall. Spring has sprung.

simulacrum : (sim-yuh-LAY-krum) noun: 1. An image or representation. 2. A vague resemblance to something.

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