What to Do When You Discover You Only Have One Head
I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed before.
I was at work when my life changed. Janine held a cookie up to her shoulder, right there at her desk in the middle of our bustling office.
This was a woman I had sat opposite for a couple of years. I didn’t think there was anything to notice about her that I hadn’t noticed already. She seemed a regular, normal person.
Then, it happened.
Out of nowhere, the Triple Chocolate Chip Special from the stand near the office entrance had a crescent shaped bite taken out of it. I did a double take as she casually brushed crumbs from her shoulder. She continued to talk on the phone whilst the cookie was steadily consumed. It was awkward, really awkward.
What do you do at times like those? Those times where to say something would either embarrass the other person or expose you as a freak.
Thinking fast, I worked out that if, at the end of her phone call, I said to Janine “You’ve got an extra, invisible head. It just ate that cookie, Janine,” then the conversation would not go well.
Obviously, Janine being Janine, she would be quite sweet about it if I did point it out to her. She might flush a little, like the time I told her why Tim in Accounts avoided her after the Christmas party. But, if I asked, it would also force her into speaking about it, which might not be something she would be comfortable with.
Also, it occurred to me, she might look at me with faint horror. She would have to explain that it was me that was the oddball. A sudden chill slid carelessly down my spine, playing a descending scale of paranoia. Say that it was not quite as I saw it. Maybe Janine was the one who was normal…
I rejected this thought. Well, at least consciously. During my lunch hour, I took a walk through the park. I caught myself looking, (I mean, observing really closely) searching for clues and hints about who was most normal. Was it Janine or was it me? I told myself that this was being silly. Obviously, it was me. People have one head. It’s a fact. No-one thinks anything else is true.
Small kids would instantly tell you the answer if you asked them.
“How many heads do people have, Small Child?”
“One.”
See?
The reason I kept looking was I had to be sure.
That’s a lie, actually.
The first few looks were so I could be sure, like scratching an itchy mosquito bite for that moment of relief. I looked closely at the office girls, eating their sandwiches. At first it was all good. Ordinary people. All with one head.
But.
Oh yes, but.
Then it happened.
A young woman on a bench was talking animatedly into her phone. Her face was highlighted by a halo of golden hair. An open bag of dried apricots was balanced on her lap. She used her free hand to take one out. The hand drifted towards her shoulder. The apricot was poised, plump, in her fingertips. That was, until it was gone. And, the whole time, she had been speaking. Her voice was still as clear as it had been when I first heard it — there was nothing in her mouth at all! At least. At least…
At least not the mouth I could see.
After I had witnessed this, I couldn’t see anything else. I kept looking. And time after tortuous time it was the same story.
Babes in strollers licked ice cream with invisible tongues. A guy let out a lungful of cranberry vape juice through nostrils I could not discern. A couple of teens writhed in pleasure as they shared an unseen passionate kiss.
Everywhere.
Everyone.
Except me.
Which is why I am here. Hiding underneath a bridge in the park, frittering away another lunchtime. Scared to do what I am doing now out in public view.
My arm grows stiff as I hold it up by my shoulder. But, despite the discomfort, I cannot move. Fingers that grip the crust of a sandwich grow cold. But, I keep them there. They hold the bait. It is only by doing this that I hope to feel whole once more. If only it would happen today. The invisible bite, the satisfaction of eating. The final and incontrovertible proof of the truth: I am normal.
That unseen bite would be the only way I could be sure. That bite would tell me I have a second head.
Just like everybody else.
