She looked strangely similar to me – she’d the same dark kind of hair that fluffed into the air, the same bony knees and thick thighs. Long before we met people would ask if I had a twin. (She the same, I later learnt.) And then we met and got on so well: ‘peas in a pod’. We had pretty different interests. And ideas.But I think it was how we spoke in the same way that was really remarkable. The same rhythms and indentations of speech; everyone told us. The only difference was that she always got certain words mixed up.
‘Come over her,’ she would say. Or, ‘I don’t know what got into here.’
I found it sweet, and never asked why.
‘On a him,’ she would say. And, ‘I don’t know what got into whim.’
Sometimes I wondered if she did it deliberately. (With our air ruffling in the hair.) I couldn’t tell. I noticed, texting, her phone never autocorrected it; it was no simple typo.
Then sometimes, after being around her a lot, I noticed that I did it too.