When Two Is Too Much

Dear Diary ...

It is you, Diary, isn't it? Some sneaky varlet didn't steal into my lodgings and replace you with a paper doppelganger whilst I was taking third naps, did they? Did they?!!

Forgive me, Diary, my sweet. I know it is you and only you, for there on the back end paper is an identifying thumbprint I cast in pamcake syrup, just for this very security. But oh, how the rest of my day has been flipped, and perhaps even turned upside down. And I pray your fibrous patience as I take a minute or three to detangle myself from this icky, sticky cobweb of a day.

Seconds after The Touched One completed her departing scamper, I must confess that I was taken by an overpowering Swoon.

This hasn't happen'd often, mind you. The Swoon. Or as Chef called them, those times when I've DFO'd (Done-Fell-Out'd). Once was on the afternoon that I learned for certain that dear Mother had left us indeed. But another was when I "Lindy Hop'd" solo from dusk 'til dawn on an implied dare from Lady Lennox -- see if she ever slurs a challenge of "Oh, I doubt you'd last a minute, Bonnie" again. (Though she wasn't there to see my all-night recital, having been called back to Tijuana for another mission trip, I consider the argument won on grounds of principle.) So I have come to see these instances of consciousness lost as portents of great importance.

Minutes later, my Swoon of Destiny completed, I picked my still reeling self from the ground and considered my surroundings. Yes, I was still in the Royal Yard. Yes, my face was still a bit damp from an unexpected application of apparent desire. And yes, she had left behind a half-empty box of butterflied chockies! Opportunity came a-rushing up to my front portico door, Diary, and it made such a great knockina-noise! So I answered by picking up the half-empty ... no, half-full! With a half-full box of insectual confections under my sinewy arm, I strode around the side yard and made a bee-line for El Yardo del Gilmer!

But no sooner had I come 'round the corner, when what to my bleary eyes should appear not one Gilmer sitting cross-legged in the grass, flicking inchworms centimeters back in their progress ...

But two.

Not wishing to impose myself upon a possible twin -- mayhap she's been hidden in the attic all the while -- without being properly introduced, I hid in one of Father's prized fig copses and considered the sight before me.

There they were, side by side. I turned my head to the side as I've seen inquisitive hounds do, thinking that perhaps my noggin was jarred still from the fall that accompanied my Swoon. But even horizontally, there they were. Two Gilmers. Two of the one.

And they were moving in tandem, only without the assistance of a bicycle. One would flick and so would the other. One would giggle at a passing bit of tumble-fluff and so would the other. I was nigh mesmerized by this harmony of image when one said to the other, "Well, this'as been fun!" The other answered with a nod, "Well! This 'AS been fuuuuun!" Somewhere, a servant played a theremin. And with that, the Gilmer on the left leapt in place, landed on here-to-fore hidden roller skates and iced across the turf, disappearing into the house.

This left a single Gilmer. Almost imperceptively, the wind shifted from a gentle breeze to something more insistent.

And before I could reassign myself to the delivery at hand, this remaining Gilmer's visage of mind-blasted bliss shifted into one that knew far too much. The grin was replaced by a commanding smirk. And the next flick? Why it sent that poor inchworm some five meters through the empty air. That's like from here to Audi Arabia for such a widdle creature! I had to stifle an eeking of "Eep!" as this more-and-more Un-Gilmer Gilmer rose slowly and deliberately, dusted off her arms and stood much taller than her counterpart, as if filled from top to toe with a purpose I dare not consider. Shifting only her dark-cast eyes, the surveyed her surroundings. Did she see me? Did she? I thought for a moment she had, as the blood in my calves ran cold, though perhaps I had chosen poorly a stance for skulking.

Flaring a single nostril, her smirk became a very satisfied whiplash of a smile and she turned to walk away. Walk, I say, not roll. Her hands curling into and out of fists as she went, each step seemed to burn a print of pride and avarice to mark her path.

Once sure of her distance, I fled back to my room, to you, Dear Diary. The box of butterfly-chocs were lost in my panicked flail-run. As was a single shoe and a button from my best vest. But I had to find something of certainty.

Who was this Other-Gilmer? And if there are two Gilmers, which is which? If one can so resemble the other, which was the Gilmer who made me AWLL KWEEN?!? Darn me and my amorous desirings, as I didn't even take note of her footwear! Darn me all the way to Heck!

Was she rolling, Dear Diary?!

WAS SHE ROLLING OR WALKING?!!?

Yours tremulously,
Y.B.P.M the ... Other-Smooched?