Yet in the magic circle is room for only one… The twin hovers her trainer over the metal. She pauses, draws back. I see her thinking: What if I can’t replicate the sound? Her logic doesn’t focus on the manhole, its looseness, percussive material, the reasons for the noise, but rather on her sister’s ability to conjure it. For the twin, it is not guaranteed just anyone could make this dance floor sing, or that her identical weight must yield identical magic. The conclusion is unknown. Therefore, a risk. A trial of self-belief. She lifts her foot again. I miss my mouth, spill coke down my shirt. Again, she withdraws. Her brow squeezes. A moral flashes through it. And like that, she folds, cross-legged, on the grass; consents to spectate. She will not trespass on her sister’s fairy ring, steal her thunder. The humanity! Generosity unsurpassed! Wait… there’s more! She begins to applaud, that fleshy infant clap (its value enhanced by the coordinative strain). The hipsters are discussing liquorice Rizla: ‘It’s flavoured smoking…’ They chortle like scrambled cassette tapes. But watch, now the tiny dancer is a celebrity, applauded by her own mirror image. An audience of herself. Like that dream where everyone looks like you. I pick up my phone, type ‘I’m sorry’ then delete it. I picture a world of admiring clones, assigned doppelgängers bred solely to approve of unremarkable feats; a second Me sat cross-legged on my shadow, shouting ‘Bravo!’ and ‘It’s a miracle! Look! She can summon salty water from her eyes!’

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