“No, I don’t mean it in like a metaphorical sense. I mean you’re literally, actually, a different person.”
You look in the mirror. Open your mouth. Check your gums.
There’s no change whatsoever. It’s you there, staring back at you.
“I was halfway about to call the police, but then you got up and started talking. You still talk like you.”
You go back to looking in the mirror. You could use a shave. Other than that: fine. Other than that: you.
“Did you just read The Metamorphosis? Are you trying to Kafka me?”
“See? You used Kafka as a verb. It’s you.”
* * *
She refuses to be seen with you anywhere. People might think she’s cheating. You call off work. Try to make yourself scarce.
It comes in stages. Your nose. Your lips. Not quite right. Not quite you. She sees you.
“Your nose is back! Your mouth, kinda.”
As you change, so does she. She waits in anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning. You “change back” slowly, then all at once.
You stand in front of the mirror, her behind you, you somebody else.
“See? It’s you again.”