twins
Identical twins in identical outfits sit across from me on the train, one in his mother's lap. I am convinced that I could tell them apart if I knew them because something seems different about their faces although I can't tell what. I study them, searching for the subtle differences that make them unique. Ah, the one on the right has eyes that are slightly crossed. That must be it. The one on the left then looks in my direction and I see that his eyes are crossed just like his brother's. I notice an ever so slight dimple on one nose and quickly scan the other. It's there and it looks exactly the same. Is there more a fullness in one's cheeks than the other? I study their ears, their foreheads, their chins and lips. I'm certain that they look different because of their affect or personality, but beyond that I can't find anything uniquely twin A vs. twin B other than the fact that twin B has a Bee Movie sticker on his jacket.
I wonder if the mother loves them exactly the same amount or if she favors one over the other. I can't help but worry about this as if it's any concern of mine, but I'm a worrier so if it weren't that it would be something else. Is there one twin that ends up on her lap more than the other, I wonder. How does she decide? And why the matching outfits? They are truly matching down to the amount of cuff on each pair of pants. Same shirts. Same hoodies. Same coats. Same pants. Same shoes. I can only see twin A's socks but I am deeply curious if their socks are also the same. I try to peak when twin B shifts on the bench but his socks are hidden from view.
The mother has the bone structure of a model and is thinner than thin, a slightly less exotic Iman full of nothing but potential. Everything physical about her is delicate but there's no doubt that she's a New Yorker based on her "don't fuck with me" vibe. Her voice is deeper than I expect when she speaks to the boys, chastising first one and later the other about their four year old utter lack of regard for their matching hats. She's a bit fierce, really, like that of a lioness protecting her young. My worry shifts to her, hoping that she's not too tired caring for twins, thinking how exhausted I am by one. I wonder if their overall stillness and quiet compared to Norbu's fidgety hyperactivity makes a difference or if being a mom is just plain tiring, no matter what. Tiring isn't the right word, but too often the right word isn't there for you when you need it.
We exit the train together and I try to gauge whether or not they are exactly the same height as they make a left turn and I make a right but I can't tell and I know that I'll never know because strangers on a train tend to remain just that.