We ordered two cold steins from a Heidi lookalike. You were in love with

the Ferris Bueller lookalike. You said, ‘I wish I’d a friend who’d go over there

and tell him.’ So I went, minding not to knock over the cowbells the Pinnochio

lookalike was playing.

  You were the only one who didn’t look like someone else.

  It happens to me more and more often – everyone I see resembles someone

else. Ferris Bueller lookalike’s friend looked like a model I’d seen in a magazine.

I smiled at him. He looked at my mouth. The Pinnochio lookalike took out his

Swiss horn. It was like a scene from a John Irving novel. That was another

thing: places reminded me of other places I’d been.

  The Ferris Bueller lookalike was boring. You said we should leave without

paying. Just then I recalled watching two friends run from a Chinese takeaway

with a cheeseplant. The Heidi lookalike followed us out onto the street.

You told her we’d forgotten the bill. I kept very still. I was thinking about love,

of what it was to take a taxi home together, wondering if you and I might

kiss some time, and what that might mean.