I see her at the grocery store hunched inside the bodycare aisle, squinting against the fine print on shampoo bottles. Flip flops and cut off shorts, a Warrant t-shirt, hands clutching a carton of Marlboro Lights and a six pack of Diet Pepsi. Vices that she once announced were the toxins of humanity. Soda and smoking are just cancer waiting to happen. So I quit. Smoking and beef and cheese, corn syrup and transfats. I learned the roast beef we shaved into paper thin slices for our customer’s American sandwiches was flayed from the hind quarters of innocent bovine. You don’t want to see what they do to those poor cows. She scrubbed her face with coconut oil in the employee bathroom. Her shiny ponytail bounced as she cantered between the fry and salad stations. The Eurythmics hummed while sopping up grease stains with a mop. Books on astrology, feet up on the table, yogic stretches between preparing curly fry orders. This isn’t my forever place. One day I’ll leave. Right now I’m here for the mountains. I follow her through the store from a distance, observing the shape of her petite body from behind, somehow thinner, more frail than I remember, hair stringier, duller. I call her name, once, twice, three times. She limps a little on the left. A car accident, a ski accident, death accident. Trauma keeps us from remembering our names. My hand taps her shoulder. Her ruddy face turns to me, scarred and cracking under florescent lights. My body attempts to hug hers. She recoils, opens her mouth, chipped tooth protruding from red gums. Sorry lady, you’re mistaking me for my twin sister, happens sometimes.