The Intrusion

Twenty-Three

[?]

I've heard that when you lose an arm or a leg, it might feel like it's still there. The wiring in your head doesn't realize the part's been amputated, so your brain keeps sending signals to it and keeps thinking it's receiving signals back. It's like having a ghost-arm or a ghost-leg or something.

I don't know if all that is true or not, but I'll tell you this much—when your consciousness jumps out of your head and straight into someone else's, you don't get those ghost feelings. There is no residual connection because in the body you've jumped into, there never was a link to begin with.

That said, even though I can't physically (or maybe the better word would be mentally) feel that anything is missing, this is weird.

I was aware that things about this body would be different. I understand basic human anatomy. I just didn't think about it—or maybe I was avoided thinking about it—until the point came when I was getting dressed to go out and everything was there in front of me.

I keep telling myself over and over that this isn't really different from Halloween. I'm in a costume, that's all.

When the night ends, I'll come back to this apartment and go to sleep. Once I've been long-asleep and the sun finally rises again and casts the city into the warm, bright morning light and long, dark shadows, I'll wake up. I'll take this costume off and go back to being me.

But still, no matter how many times I tell myself that, no matter how many times, as I stand in front of this giant wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling mirror in Jordan's living room looking at myself, I can't get over the ridiculousness of it all. The insanity.

I look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous. Even these clothes! I'm wearing a pair of Jordan's jeans that I found in her closet. It took me a whole minute to slink her feet through the tiny ankle holes and finally stretch the dark-wash denim over her legs.

I do not understand women's clothing.

I don't know why anyone would ever want to wear pants like this. The jeans squeeze my legs and the pockets are so small that I can't even fit her phone in them. Why bother having pockets if you can't fit anything in them? I tried for two minutes before giving up and grabbing the purse she left haphazardly on the table. I put the phone in there with her wallet and a bunch of other random crap I assume she totes around with her everywhere she goes to make the purse heavier so it will be more useful as a weapon if she ever happens to get attacked while she's out. That, or she's using it as a portable trash can.

Those are the only two explanations I can come up with for carrying around:

One (1) compact mirror (because there aren't enough mirrors around here already), five (5) different tubes of lipstick (even though from what I've seen of her, Jordan doesn't even wear lipstick), fifteen (15) random crumpled-up receipts, three (3) assorted maps of the city of Vancouver, two (2) separate sets of car keys, one (1) heavy metal bottle opener with the words "Lagunitas Brewery" printed on it in nifty, block-letters, one (1) tube of hand cream, one (1) pair of white rimmed sunglasses, one (1) spare phone charger, and approximately one-hundred-and-seven (107) assorted coins of US currency loosely floating around at the bottom of the bag.

Her purse smells like wet newspaper, copper, and nickel.

I've taken most of the random crap out of the bag and dumped it on the glass dining table to deal with later. No way I'm dragging all that around with me tonight.

With one last look in the mirror and one final full-body-wracking-shudder at the face I see staring back, I leave Jordan's apartment, lock the door behind me and make my way down the hallway to the reflective-metal elevator. I catch another glimpse of myself in the metal door and shiver.

I hope I'm ready for this.