The pizza delivery guy who loved my sister never looked at me even though we’re identical. He wasn’t really Italian but he called himself Giuseppe and now the one we still call “the Italian” is dead. He’s dead and I prefer to imagine it was me who did the killing, slicing into the back as if he were a large, gooey pizza with extra sausage. It was probably me who did it, I tell myself, because people should be who they are. I tell my sister this, how lies are like toppings nobody ordered.
My sister smiles at me as if I’ve just opened the cage of us. Thank you for saying so, she says, I don’t like men who cheat.
My sister and I are twins but only one of us is a murderer. One of us is a murderer and the other is a lovely cook and we live together as one thing. We look like modern versions of Donna Reed. We’re beautiful in black and white so we wear black and white and my sister the murderer keeps me on my toes for example she says goodnight and I kiss her on her soft, dark hair and I ask her why she must sleep with gloves on. Why must she sleep with gloves on? Well, she never answers my questions honestly and so I wonder. Her hands are so creamy and my sister is too beautiful. I find it impossible to imagine her with a line-up number hanging from her neck.
Confession is good for the soul and sometimes my sister will accidentally fall asleep without gloves on and so I wear them. The gloves feel as if they make love to my hands, and my hands have never needed more acceptance. Only one of us holds the light, only one of us has ever taken a fake Italian lover. As the proud sister I used to imagine myself in the arms of Giuseppe, all saucy and salty, his eyes shining like black olives. I can see myself in the dead boy’s arms even now so I kiss him on his gooey lips and tell him how I feel just like my sister.
This is where he notices me and tells me I’m just as beautiful. He says it to me with a wide open, fresh pink smiling look of surprise.
Giuseppe in dreams has the sweetest tasting tears. He offers them to both of us, and there is something like a feeling of satiation. Choosing one of us over the other, when you think about it, must have been murder.
