An Encounter

I always went to the edge of the woods when I needed to be alone. On the far side, before it dropped down to the railway line, there was a low dry-stone wall, crumbling away, that made the perfect seat. It was incredibly peaceful; you could hear yourself think, work things out in your head. Once an hour, there was a roar of the high-speed train from the city, like a round of applause.

Sometimes a robin would come and join me, sitting on a nearby branch, and once I saw the startled eyes of a rabbit.

Most dog walkers and ramblers stuck to the main path. My route involved negotiating brambles and a boggy pit after the rain.

I had never seen another human there.

That's why I was so surprised to see you sitting on the wall. I was afraid at first. I could only see you from the back, and your hair was so similar to mine it looked as if I was already there, waiting for myself.

When I crunched through the dry leaves, you turned your head, and I saw that you weren’t quite me. Your face was a close match, but there was something slightly off. You looked like one of those artists’ impressions where they hadn't drawn the mouth in right and had left your lips unfinished, pinched together in an uneven line.

You didn’t seem at all alarmed by me appearing through the bushes. It was almost as if you were expecting me; you even moved up to make room for me on the wall. And if you thought there was anything strange about our similar appearances, you didn’t mention it.

In fact, you didn’t say much at all, just a mumbled ‘hello’. It sounded odd like you were struggling to move your lips and couldn't open your mouth enough to form the words.

I leaned in closer to hear you better. I had no time to think about what you were doing when your hands reached for my mouth.

Until I felt a pain, like thousands of tiny razor blades.

‘That is a much better fit,’ you said afterwards, your words now clear and well-enunciated.

But, of course, I couldn’t reply.