There was a tap on Toby’s shoulder. He ignored it.
“Hey, brother. Y’okay?”
Another gentle but sure tap on his right shoulder.
“What!?” Toby snorted through his self made cocoon.
“I insist that you stop this … harassment,” he spat - leaning into his preferred British pronunciation.
Toby uncoiled, squinting through his hoodie. He could tell it was the male idiot by the way his hair winged out from the sides of his head
“You okay? You don’t look so good, pal.”
Toby threw his head back to cast off his hoodie. He was going to reduce this Idiot to ashes with a few choice words and then he was going to journal about it. Instead, Toby froze in horror.
“Fine good.” Toby sputtered at his clone.
“Sweet,” replied the Idiot, extending a hand for a high five.
Toby broke his cardinal rule and consented to the high five - undone by this smiling, unburdened version of himself.
“K, dude. Just wanted to check. In Dusty we Trusty.”
“In Dusty We Trusty?” The phrase left Toby cold. Dusty Baker hadn’t managed the Cubs since 2006.
The Idiot’s eyes were lax but happy. His cheekbones high, his brow severe and his thin lipped mouth smiled with great ease.
Toby reflected a smile back at his other self but could feel his cheeks and lips crack. The bro showed no sign of recognition, which only deepened Toby’s horror.