Their hair was cut in the same style, short, pixie-like, had been dyed a midnight black to match. Perhaps, maybe, they took turns colouring each other, covering the grey.
The designer glasses were identical—sleek, modern, with a giraffe-skin pattern covering the arms. Both wore light turtleneck sweaters under bright hand-knitted ones. Different colours, perhaps each one made for the other, given as gifts long ago.
Both donned dark, polyester slacks. The New Balance running shoes were, possibly, pulled from the same store shelf. Same size. Same amount of wear.
Interchangable, no doubt.
They sat facing each other in the food court, enjoying their Subway sandwiches. Tuna. Lots of green and black olives. White bread. Tea. Cookies—chocolate-chip. They ate in relative silence, scratching the film from their lottery tickets, searching for winning numbers. Scraping the surface, methodically, with pennies (the only use for them, nowadays).
Every so often, one would speak to the other in soft tones, using some East European dialect. Bulgarian, perhaps. The long lines in their aged faces told of a rich history, perhaps spent in their entirety, together.
Twins. Sisters, experiencing what might be a ritual, oblivious to the stranger, sitting at a far table, facing them, trying to read these lives like the film on those lottery tickets.
Neither of us was necessarily successful—in their winnings or my character assessment, but all of us filled with an imaginary wonder of what might be.