She is sitting opposite me in that American style diner, end of February, a sunny Friday afternoon. We are having our fill of coffee, sweets and talk, and when I tell her about my father she laughs, shakes her head as though she cannot believe, for all the similiarities that we have come across so far. I smile, I am getting used to this.

I had known that modern opera would not suit me. What I had not known was that we would leave after the first act, and I certainly had no idea that I would meet her at Wendy's when I should have been sitting in the 9th row, enjoying "Peter Grimes", and now she is reading the diary of Anais Nin I lent her instead of 18th century English novels and we speak of sharing and making the most of our lives, and many things people certainly don't discuss at cafés, so when they hear they smile, blush, or mostly just turn away. She would pack her bag and leave for a trip around the world any moment. She is even less material than I am. We both have a milk tooth, sometimes we laugh too loudly in public places, and she is the one who has taken me belly dancing. I have not asked her yet, but I think she has also been to Dahab and liked it.

We used to go to secondary school together and had everyone perplexed at how on earth the two of us ever became friends as apart from our name we'd never had too much in common. We could not make sense of it either, until now, though the only answer we have is that it has always been preordained. With that, we are rather content.