It was at the time of my boyfriend’s death that I started questioning things. We were together for five years before the doctors gave him a death-sentence. My heart broke a little more each day after the delivery of the news. Then again, he was always smoking a cigarette, if not a cigarette, a cigar, if not either, he was sleeping. The cancer knocked the wind out of my lungs. About a month before his passing, I remember looking into his eyes and crying at the sight of his face, which is currently under the worm-filled dirt of some Iowa cemetery, wasting away a thousand miles away from me. The memories of his funeral fly into my head faster than I can keep them at bay. I sigh, realizing that if I cry, all the passengers on this green-line subway will stop texting or reading the newspaper or drinking their extra-strength espressos and stare. And maybe this time, I want them to stare, eyes glinting like a deer’s in headlights. So, I succumb to the flashbacks, letting hot tears drip down my face, leaving streaks of black mascara.
     The people stop and stare, as predictable as a soap opera. They see some girl just sobbing under locks of dark, curled hair. It should strike them as unusual, maybe cause one to ask what would make someone so upset in the subway. But they don’t; the faces that were once upturned are now back down, minds absorbed in different worlds far away from here, wherever here was. I quit my crying and gaze over at the platform, the train screeching to a stop. I have no idea which stop this is, but I get off anyway. Being in the city is better than being under it.
     Stepping off the stair and onto the platform, my boots thud on the ground. I inhale the slightly brisk, autumn air of the underground station. Yep, that’s the ever-pleasant smell of New York City, burning diesel and cold coffee. My red lips smirking at the thought, I look for the exit to take me to street level. Spotting it far off in the distance, I begin my trek to the stairwell. Someone bumps into me with a thick beard in a khaki overcoat and I swing my arm around to check my purse. My wallet and phone are gone! My wallet and phone are gone!!! Sharp, urgent fear cuts though my body. I spin around to chase after that son-of-a-gun.  But he must have made an escape; I can’t see him anywhere in the swarming crowds.
     “Help! Somebody help! I’ve been robbed!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Then, my eyes turn toward movement, a scuffle by the exit to the street.
     Someone has that man in some sort of a wrestling hold. I rush to thank whoever caught him and to look for a payphone or cell phone to borrow to call the police. It’s a train station, there’s bound to be a cop somewhere, my senses tell me. Only, if there is a cop, he would’ve heard my shouts. Thinking as quickly as possible, I fight the crowd that has gathered around the quarrel to get my valuables back. As I move toward the center, I realize just how close I was to losing my identity forever. The criminal is just five feet from the first concrete step; the man holding him is in between him and the exit. I recognize the sandy-brown ringlets that seem to tower over the man who is doubled-over. Then, my blue eyes and his lock. I would know that face anywhere, except I’ve never seen him before. It is the most unnerving thing in the world, and for a moment, I feel as though he’ll call out my name, saying      “Andromeda, is that you?” But he doesn’t.
     Luckily, some middle-aged woman in a pantsuit is able to flag down a security guard. The officer proceeds to cuff the criminal and lead him away after handing my belongings back to me. The crowd that still remains sees that the show is over and they go on to wherever they need to be, leaving me standing in the center of the quickly filling-up station. Who was he? The man who took off long ago after saving my identity is still nowhere to be seen. So I decide to head up the stairs to the street and maybe do some shopping before I have to go to the office at two-thirty.

     I pass by some overcrowded and overly-expensive shoe stores, none of which interest me. After about ten minutes of walking around and shivering, I find myself to be in very good luck. The man who I have been looking for is walking on the opposite side of the street. His face looks paler outdoors than it did in the subway station. I can see his breath in a vaporous cloud as he exhales into the air which has gotten much colder.            
     “Hey!” I shout quickly, not remembering that he can’t hear me across five lanes of heavy traffic. To my astonishment, he, along with a couple who was walking near him, looks at me. Great, I’ve made a fool of myself. But as I begin to run, I suddenly don’t feel like that much of an idiot, but I probably look like one. My feet stomp along the pavement as I race to the crosswalk. My common sense tells me not to go. But I need to thank him… And who knows when, if ever, I’ll get the chance to do so again. I wait for the speeding taxis and the tractor-trailers to nearly blow through the red light before crossing my fingers and crossing the street.
     When I make it to the other side, I glance about the swarms to practically find a needle in a haystack. The wind picks up as I speed up my pace. I knew I should have worn a jacket.
     “Hey, wait a minute,” I say while fast-walking and between breaths too quietly for the man to hear. “Hold up.”
     Finally, he must’ve either heard me or found that he stepped in gum and stopped. I latched onto his shoulder, making him flinch. At least I caught him.
     “Umm, sir, I, uh, just wanted to say thanks for, uh—” I stop in mid-sentence when he turns around. His shy eyes peer through dark framed glasses, his navy blue coat billowing slightly in the breeze. I want to say more, but I can’t form my thoughts into words. His ghostly presence ensnares my soul.
     “R-Robert?” I stammer.
     “Sorry, I think you may have confused me for someone else,” he says calmly in a formal accent I can’t seem to place. I try to think of something to say and stare at him blankly.
     “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. But I just wanted to say thanks, that’s all,” my words stumble over one another.
     “Oh, right,” he says, recalling the scuffle. “You’re the woman from the subway?”
     “Yeah, I wanted to say thanks for stopping that guy, but you just sorta took off,” I shrug.
     “Oh, sorry about that. I just needed to get out and get some air,” he replies, gesturing to the space around him.
      “It’s fine. Thanks again for helping me.”
      “No problem. I don’t mind saving a damsel in distress every once in a while,” he laughs. I notice how strangely calm he is about the whole situation and try to keep the almost-uncomfortably-awkward conversation going.
     “It’s funny that you said that. My name’s Andromeda, but I don’t remember what you said yours was.”
     “I’m Michael,” he reaches out and shakes my hand quickly and solidly. I’m still trying to place where I’ve seen him previously. Walmart? ...no …the office? ...no …the apartment complex? ...no…
     “Did we meet before? I feel like we have but maybe it was a long time ago,” I say bashfully, and I’m pretty sure my cheeks are even pinker than they were when I was running into the icy wind. He shrugs and takes a moment to think.
     “I-I don’t know. It’s just the oddest feeling though, because I feel as though we met but I can’t remember…” he rubs his chin as if trying to conjure up any memory of me he may have before the subway incident today.
     “Weird.”
     “Are you heading anywhere in particular?” he changes the subject.
     “Nowhere really.”
     “Well, Andromeda, would you like an escort to ‘nowhere really’? Because I don’t want you to find yourself in any more trouble,” he asks, his voice laced with concern. I don’t think he has anywhere to go, and it couldn’t hurt, plus I don’t want to make him feel bad by declining.
     “Sounds like a plan.” He chuckles at my ridiculous answer. I can feel the blush creeping up my cheeks again, but I am still unsure why. I just met him. This needs to stop.
     I start to walk down the block to the intersection, hoping to cross to find a nice coffee shop to buy him something for all he’s done. I think it would only be right to reward him for his efforts; after all, he didn’t need to wrestle down some criminal and could just as easily have walked away.
     As we approach the intersection, hundreds of cars rush by at the speed of light. When the light changes and we can cross, I’m the first to step down to street level from the curb, my brown leather boots making their famous clomp. But as I take another step, a silver car whips around the corner. In a split second, I try to get out of the way, but it doesn’t slow down. But someone grabs my sweater and pulls me back a moment before I would become asphalt.
     I breathe heavily, my heart beating more rapidly by the second, as fear finally registers in my brain. I turn my head around slowly.
     “Are you alright?” Michael asks, my fear reflected in his face.
     “I-I think so,” I answer after about ten long seconds of processing what actually nearly happened.
     “I was hoping you wouldn’t get in any trouble.”
     “It doesn’t bother me if you’re here.” Wow, that sounded really dumb. As I say that, I remember where I first met him. I did see him before. We were here. We first met back there. Deja-vu, like a sickness, comes over me. We met here, though I know that’s impossible. But it’s true; this happened before…
    

     His name was Robert and he was walking from one of the many bland, characterless, sky-scraping office buildings that still adorn this very street. He was trying to hail a taxi when it started to rain. At first, it was light but it quickly changed into an all-out downpour. I had just come out of a meeting about a new case my law firm was going to begin working on but I wasn’t paying much attention to it. After about eleven car accidents in the same week, the classic who-hit-who-first had bored me, causing me to watch the show out the window. I could see Robert flailing his arm that wasn’t holding his umbrella, trying to get the attention of any cab-driver who had their wind-shield wipers turned up to high. When the meeting was over and someone was assigned the case, I was ushered out of the building, like everyone else, and faced with the same challenge Robert had: stopping an unstoppable cab-driver. Of course, I didn’t pay attention to the news that day and had neglected to wear my rain-coat and water-proof shoes. The second I stepped out from under the tiny over-hang by the exit, I was getting drenched. Waiting for a taxi, Robert walked over to me to let me share his umbrella.
    

     That was the first time we met. I would never forget that. The sad thing is, after five years and on the same street, I think I see him again. But things like that don’t happen. Besides, there are lots of people who look like others. There are twins, stunt-doubles, even people who are distant-cousins of some sort may look alike. But Robert didn’t have any siblings. My mind swirls, attempting to make the pieces of this puzzle fit but none actually do. Then Michael thankfully interrupts my stare.
     “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks slowly.
     “Yeah… I just finally remembered something, that’s all.”
     “Oh, let me guess. You probably have someplace to go instead of nowhere,” he sighs.
     “It’s not that. I remember who you remind me of. You see,” this is going to be harder to explain than I thought, “you look like you could be my former-boyfriend’s twin.”
     “Oh, that's odd. I don’t see any reason why he would’ve broken up with you.”
     “He didn’t.”
     “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
     “He passed away. Five years ago. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I wait for him to say something but his expression changes from the shock of thinking I was in a relationship into something else.
     “Oh, goodness. I’m terribly sorry; I had no idea.”
     “It’s okay. I should be apologizing for bringing up something like that.”
     “You don’t need to apologize for anything.” When he says this, I almost shed a tear. I had so much to apologize for: the time Robert heard me complaining to my insurance agent over his medical bills; that time I ran over a sparrow because I couldn’t see it; all those people I had to argue against in court who got prison time for months, even years, because I was hired by someone else; this morning when I screamed in the station, probably scaring some people half to death.
     “Thanks.”
     “For what?” Michael asks.
     “For being in the station this morning and for saying that. I think I needed to hear that,” I say simply.
     He blushes and before he can say anything, I say, “We should talk over coffee. It’s getting chilly out here. I’ll pay.”
     “That’s very kind, but I can—”
     “You saved my life twice today, literally and figuratively speaking. I should at least treat you to some throat-burning coffee.”
     He laughs and asks me where I would like to go. After pointing to a café down the street, he takes my hand and we stroll down the sidewalk.