Dine and Dash

I had one major coincidence in my life. It wasn't like the coincidences in fiction and fables, though. Nobody came to a startling realization. The course of history wasn't altered. No one came out ahead. It went so smoothly, there and gone, and nothing changed.

I tossed my napkin on my plate, then retrieved it to blow my nose. I do this at the end of every meal, regardless of how dirty the napkin is. I've tried to be self aware of this habit, but my nasal never tells me it needs to be cleared until that stained piece of tissue hits the dish. Once, on an evening out, a young woman branded me as having atrocious table etiquette and stormed out of the diner we were so thoroughly enjoying. I've always assumed she just didn't want to pay for her portion of the meal. I thought we were going Dutch.

This place was also a diner. A significantly nicer one than I took that young woman to, in fact. Perhaps I should have brought her there. Lovely bric-a-brac adorned the walls, all of it in some way saying "Home Sweet Home". It felt that way. The forks and the spoons were both shaped like spoons, only the forks had prongs. They made for a wonderful right hand table setting.

I ate eggs and finished them. My stomach said it was full at the moment I ran out of breakfast. Satisfying.

The Waitress (her name escapes me) dropped my check with the kind of hesitancy God must have taken before putting Man on the Earth. The curls of her bob fell in front of her eyes and she made no effort move them. It's just a napkin, I thought to myself, assuming I had offended her with my misuse of the thing. She took a long gander at me before moving on to another group of customers.

It was odd. Most things are.

Julie came. She was the manager. Light brown eyes, light brown skin, and long, long hair. As she approached, it was as if she asked to borrow the Waitress's expression served to me moments before. I've got to stop recycling my napkins. Hands folded, she prepared to speak.

". . ."

Ah-choo! I sneezed, covering my nose with cupped hands. Why didn't you warn me sooner, nose?

Julie shifted gears. "Do you need a napkin?"

She gets it! I guess I didn't offend her, and thank heavens so. It's emotionally damaging to feel like you're being perpetually inappropriate.

"Yes, please," I humbly garbled through my hands.

As I cleared the remnants of my stuffy nostrils, Julie reassumed her concerned disposition. At the time, it was unclear what she was about to say, though I was quite certain it would end in a question mark.

"Sir?"

Hardly a question, but with the correct punctuation, nonetheless.

"Sir, have you eaten here before?"

"Yes, plenty of times. It's a pleasant establishment you run here."

"Thank you. I only ask because, well, you fit a certain description. That of a man who was here recently and decided to not pay his bill. A dine and dash, as we call it."

He must have had a mustache, tired eyes, and a "W"-shaped scar on his forehead. Those are all things I had (and still have, for the most part.)

"The man had a mustache and scar like the one on your head," she said delicately.

It was kind of her not to mention my tired eyes. It's rather unflattering, something no person wants to have brought to the forefront of the world's attention. The mustache, on the other hand, was one element of the coincidence. I had only grown it the day before, as it happened. Unlike most men—a burden and gift—I have the capacity to grown nearly any form of facial hair in a day's time. A doctor once told me it's a form of genetic regression, or something like that.

"Well, Julie," I read her name tag, "I don't believe that was me."

Clearly she wasn't hoping for that response. I was making things oh-so-complicated. A confrontation would surely stem from this lack of compliance, poor Julie thought. Fortunately for both of us, this wasn't true.

"Excuse me," said the Waitress, returning with her tail between her legs. "He's right there."

Julie looked. I looked. The Waitress pointed, candidly. A man who looked just like Rory Cleveland (or seemingly so, from behind) sat at a table just down the aisle. Fascinating!

Julie turned to me, her light brown skin now flushed. "I'm truly sorry, sir."

"Oh, it's quite fine," I said, then addressing the Waitress. "Does he really look like me?"

"He does. Very much so."

"Fascinating."

Julie interjected, "Truly, I'm very sorry, sir. Can I please buy your breakfast for you."

"That's not necessary. It was a simple mistake," said I, the victim of mistaken identity, in the moment before sneezing, once again. Ah-choo!

I retrieved the same napkin Julie gave me before and wiped my nose. Both women furrowed their brows.

"Really, I insist," Julie retorted.

I initially declined, once again, but decided it would be best to allow Julie to pay the bill, as I didn't have any money on me. As it turns out, I was fully prepared (though not proud of it) to dine and dash.

"Thank you, Julie", I said.

She took the bill from my table, then went on with the Waitress to question the other Rory Cleveland—the real dine and dasher.

Leaving the diner, it took great restraint for me not to approach my doppelganger. All I had seen was the back of his head, which gave me no frame of reference to our likeness, as I'm not familiar with the back of my own. Did he really have a scar? Was his mustache as prominent as my own? Why didn't he have any money, either? However, I managed to move on, satisfying my intrigue with the personal assurance that we'd meet again. We would.

I consider this a major coincidence, all things considered. That being said, nothing changed. My counterpart was still a thief. I was still without control and insecure of my napkin etiquette. The diner still served eggs. It was all the same as before, save for the fact that I ended up getting a cold, a likely result of using soiled paper to blow my nose. Ah-choo!