Jacob & Esau

The only thing they shared in common was a now- abandoned womb. Their toussled, rugged features were nothing of importance. To the delicate touch of a female, they may have felt the same, but, in fact, they were not. A coarse, burlap- feeling skin, perhaps, but a separate man for sure. They were twins. To the world, they were. But to each other? Merely a reflection in the mirror, a worthless gaze into a water bed, seen for a brief moment before turning away and forgetting what had just been viewed.

That was the way they always were, had always

been.

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Gazing up from his half- eaten bowl of cereal, he stared him in the eye. If it were anyone else, it may have been quite innocent. Were it anyone but him, he could have endured the smacks and taps and slurps. He'd have washed away the twitching sounds, and chalked them up to nervous play. But never him. Never. He refused to permit such amnesty.

"Must you always snap your gum?" he hissed, so subtly.

"I'm sorry. Hadn't meant to bother you." He delicately removed his feet from the table, and set them on the floor. Two loud, obnoxious thuds. Were it anyone but him, it may have been coincidence.

Half- heartedly, he continued to read the paper.

"You ever get that interview?" he asked with little care.

"Yes. It went quite well, I'd say."

"Oh, really?" he said, a hint of disbelief.

"Yes. It did. So well that I'm sitting here right now with you, not trapsing off to work."

"I see," he said, dismissing it entirely, with a quiet pop of gum.

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It had been some time since he held a steady job. He'd been holding out for months, waiting for the "next big thing." But this was all he'd found, the pity of his brother Gregg. A man he could not bear.

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"Ever think to look for work?" he seemed to gently poke. "Not that I mind you living off of me, of course. We're family, afterall-- supposed to be that way."

Perhaps they were. But even Gregg had said it there-- family. They weren't twins, brothers. Just family. And in that sense, it almost hurt. They were like Pangea, split apart, holding the appearance of a larger thing, wrecked and cleaved and split in two. Deep down he should have held some care. An apology, at the least. But, throughout their college lives, he'd learned to render numb. He was callous and dead, and placing blame.

"Yeah, I have. Nothing's caught my eye. Why? You thinkin' of kicking me out?"

He rose his eyes above the bowl, almost praying that Gregg would burst, that he would kick him out of town. Then he'd have a reason to hate his twin. He'd never feel the guilt again.

"No, it's just-- I don't know." This time, it held sincerity. "I worry about you. Chasing after every whim. You've always been that way. You get these... I don't know, ideas? And you chase them incessantly. It's like you live within your fantasies, and disregard reality. I can't be the judge of you, and God forbid I send you out, but what am I to think?"

Jase stood hotly, now. His face was turning red. From the corner of his mouth, his lips began to curl. For one long moment, it seemed as though he'd lash his twin. He'd launch the length of the table, and the two would roll onto the floor. It would be the final time that he would have to bore into his very face, and hate the man he saw.

But something broke inside. His hands, clenched moments before, were now cupping the shame within his face. He slid onto the floor, toppling the chair.

"Do you know why I've never stomached much of you?"

It finally was asked. Gregg towered over him, unsure of what he'd say. If he'd even want to know.

"Why?" he finally asked, flinching as he spoke. It hurt him to respond, to finally address the cloud that followed them for all these years.

Sitting on the floor, they looked much like a photograph. Next to the other, one could see two different worlds. Gregg was lean and pink, with piercing eyes and tender lips. Jase was gaunt, overtaken by a beard like vines aside a house. It seemed to drain the years away from him. His skin was not as clean as Gregg's, and his lips were somewhat chapped. Still, beneath the layers of regret, there stood the man that Gregg had known.

"Because," he finally said,"when I look at you? I see all that I could have been."

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Outside, the traffic raged and wept. It was the only present sound. Neither man had anything to say, or maybe they did. Maybe they were trying to find a way-- someway-- to bind themselves as one. But neither made a move. They sat, as mirrors so often do, gazing at a vacant man and wondering, Why am I the way I am? and What could I have been?