The Jogger Who Passed Me Twice

I walk the river path every morning before work. It is a straight two-kilometre stretch with water on one side and a chain-link fence on the other. There are no gates, no side trails, and at six in the morning there is usually nobody on it but me.

That Tuesday a jogger overtook me. A woman in a red windbreaker, white cap, left shoelace flapping loose with every stride. I remember thinking she would trip on it. She pulled ahead, and I watched her shrink down the path until she was a red dot far in front of me.

Maybe ninety seconds later I heard footsteps coming up from behind. Same rhythm. I moved right to give room, and the same woman passed me again. Red windbreaker. White cap. The same lace slapping the asphalt in the same loose loop. She did not come back toward me at any point — the path is dead straight and I never took my eyes off it for more than a step or two. There is simply nowhere to turn around without me seeing the turn.

I actually stopped walking and looked ahead. The first red dot was still there, far down the path, still moving away. Two of her. I stood there doing the arithmetic over and over: one path, one direction, no exits, two identical women ninety seconds apart.

The second one reached the bend where the fence ends, and by the time I got there the path beyond was empty in both directions. No parked car, no waiting friend, nothing but wet grass that held no footprints when I checked it, feeling like an idiot.

I have walked that path for six years. I have met twins before; twins do not wear the same untied lace. I do not have a theory. I just know what I counted, and I counted her twice.