I sat at a bus stop a few blocks from my old apartment, waiting. I’d fended off a handful of half-hearted self-assassination attempts along the way, a manifold practical manifestation of the doubts I felt toward what I was about to do.

Soon enough, at around ten after nine, I came walking briskly down the sidewalk. I was on my way to catch the 9:23 bus to work, late as usual. As my younger doppelganger drew near, I hauled myself up and blocked the way. Nonplussed, I tried walking around myself, but I grabbed my other by the shoulders.

I tore the headphones from my head and leveled a glare at myself over the rims of sunglasses, but an instant spark of recognition nullified any words of protest.

“Yes,” I said. “You know.”

Nerd that I was – and am – I’d dreamed often enough about meeting some alternate version of myself. Largely unconscious, a gestalt of body language was enough to settle any skepticism – self knows self.

Wrapped in sudden trusting awe, however, I was far too naïve and unguarded to run.