Baby Gemini And Ricky Instant

“I didn’t forget. The other me wanted to see the water.”

Ricky stood still for a long time. Then he took off his jacket and put it around Baby Gemini’s shoulders—both shoulders, equally.

Ricky hit it. The machine groaned and started. Baby Gemini smiled for the first time—two different dimples, one shy, one sly. baby gemini and ricky

Baby Gemini stopped walking. The river ran dark and patient. “Ricky,” they said, and their voice was two voices now, “if you can’t love the twins, you don’t get to love the person.”

“You forgot,” Ricky said.

Ricky, who had never been counted before, said, “Both.”

They became a strange pair. Ricky drove an old sedan with a busted radio, so they talked instead. Baby Gemini told two versions of every story. The time I almost drowned (heroic / pathetic). The first person I loved (they loved me back / they never knew I existed). Ricky listened to both and never asked which was true, because with Baby Gemini, both usually were. “I didn’t forget

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “But next time, bring both of you to the diner. The waitress makes good pie.”