That Spark

THE MIDDLE

No. way.

I try blinking the impossible image that is standing in front of me, but in vain.

No way on Earth!

I was aware, let me tell you. Dean had told me once that there were seven people around the globe who looked similar to a person, but what are the odds of finding one of them in the same country, the same state, even the same city you live in, standing in front of you with a note pad in his hands and an equally startled look on his face?

"I'm sorry." I collect myself and look away, and when I look at him again, my heart stops.

Save for the shade lighter hair, the troglodyte-ic beard and one or two things out of place, I would be convinced that this was Dean. Convinced without a doubt.

"Sorry." I say again and smile, and his eyes widen instantly. "You just . . . remind me of someone." Someone I love so much that I just can't tell him.

That's messed up.

I glance up to the doppelganger when he chuckles, and my heart flatlines again. Exactly the same.

"Well, this is a weird day. Would it surprise you if I said you remind me of someone too?"

"Um . . . should it?" I raise a shoulder tentatively, and he smiles, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans and producing an old and worn out wallet. I hadn't missed the ring on his left.

When I direct my eyes to the open wallet from his hand, the wind is knocked out of me again.

I gawk at the woman in the picture; who very well could have been me . . .  being spied on from a distance . . .

I steal a glance at Dean's doppelganger, and the ruggedness, that quality to his unkempt beard that I loved so much on Dean--loved the way those prickly bristles tickled my skin . . .

In digression, I conclude that there is no way this man must have gone to the lengths of stalking me, taking my picture and then showing the same to me. I wasn't half as good looking as the woman in the picture.

But when I stare into his eyes, there is nothing but adoration in them. He must be really fond of her.

A sister, perhaps?

"My wife." He corrects my mental presumptions, taking his wallet away. Then he takes a step back and regards me with the light shaking of his head like he's still finding it hard to digest. So am I.

"The resemblance is . . . impossible." He sighs, and I don't think as my hands reach for the phone in my purse. I show him the only picture I have with Dean, and that was because I had to beg him for one, past all the adorable pictures of Hayden. I am just musing if this man has a daughter too and perhaps if she too . . .

I am pulled back to the present by the loud chuckling coming from the man standing in front of me.

"This is some twisted crap." He shakes his head again, shifting on his feet.

Such a restless creature.

And with every movement he does, my heart falters bit by bit at the semblances. Then, suddenly, like I've just told him I was his wife's clone-- outlandish as it is for me to admit; but plausible being the wife of a doctor, I have considered the clone angle to this conundrum. Are we the only test subjects? Are there more? Isn't human cloning a sin? Will I go to hell? How come she's prettier? . . . --he snaps his head up to me.

"Hey, do you wanna get some lunch?"

I am momentarily thrown by his question. Then I realize that despite all evidences, the man standing before me is not my husband and is a complete stranger. But still . . .

He wants to have lunch with me?

I throw a nervous glance around the diner, almost seeing the prank cameras come out and Dean shaking off his wig and beard, taking me into his arms as everyone watched and smiled, saying, 'Baby, this was an apology for being a jerk to you all these years. I love you and I think you're the most beautiful woman on this planet.' And then kissing me. With tongue. Like he did only once before . . 

"I meant somewhere else."

I blink back to reality; followed by the alternate reality and glance up to the non-Dean, stranger holding his hand out for me to take.

"I . . . I know this is weird, but . . . hey, I mean . . . what the hell." He shrugs and winks, and I know that that was the time to turn him down politely and leave.

And then what?

Go home depressed, tell Dean about today that he probably won't even be listening to, face his back in bed and cry yourself to sleep again because he treats you like a stranger more than his wife?

No!

I decide, that it was time to do the exact opposite of it.

"What the hell." I agree and clasp my hand into today's purpose.