Nutmeg

The last twenty years he’d been chasing his double. This imposter always just out of reach. Checking out of a hotel as he was checking in. His name, already signed on guest registries, perfect doppelganger penmanship. The bizarre looks from people at cigar, liquor, and clothing shops: weren’t you just here? Occasionally he’d see him--turning corners, walking out a door. He’d pursue him but end up losing him on crowded streets. He pondered if his dilemma was science fiction: characters unstuck in time, fourth dimension corkscrews.

One day drinking vodka at a bar, a man sat next to him, said, nutmeg cures this situation. The imposter, at long last. A small jar of powder next to his drink.

The imposter said, I know what you’re thinking, and I’m tired of you, you duplicate, chasing me all these years. I’ve already had my dose, it’s time for yours. He slid the jar to the man. Not too much, otherwise you’ll go mad.

He ingested a spoonful, looked at the imposter. So if this does it then, why’re you still here?

The imposter laughed. We’ll be free once we part ways.

The man pondered his drink’s clearness. Just a bit longer, he thought, sitting still, not ready to let go of this madness.