Not Quite Me

I had the most unpleasant dream.
Something — someone — was poking around inside me. Not gently. Not like a surgeon or a lover, but like a bored mechanic digging through a broken engine. I wanted to scream, “Hey! I’m not that old! I’m still kind of attractive — in the right light!”
But no one cared. They just kept poking.
And the taste in my mouth — awful. Bitter. Chemical. Like rust and sour milk. I needed to get up and brush my teeth.
But I didn’t want to get up.
In the dream, nothing hurt.
Nothing ever hurt.
Which was suspicious.
Because for the past three days, gout had been tormenting my big toe like a sadistic little goblin. The pills were supposed to help, but they worked slower than a bureaucrat on a Friday afternoon. And yet — now — no pain. Not even a twinge.
Interesting...
I had to pee.
And let me tell you, at my age, there is no greater pleasure than a good, solid morning pee.
Forget the rest of it — this is as close to transcendence as it gets.
Warm. Relaxing. Divine.
I shuffled to the sink and reached for the toothpaste. Nearly out.
Then, the strangest thing.
I looked in the mirror and — teeth.
All my teeth.
All of them.
Okay, almost. Maybe two missing in the back, but still… this was impossible.
I wear dentures.
Proudly, even.
Because after a certain age, you learn to carry your prosthetics like war medals.
But now... my mouth felt real.
Firm. Strong. Natural.
Something was off.
I leaned closer.
The scar on my ankle — the one I got as a kid climbing that rusty fence — gone.
Just smooth, unmarked skin.
Whose body was this?
Not mine. Definitely not mine.
What the hell was going on?
A clone?
Yes! That must be it.
It came flooding back — some shady contract I signed decades ago, maybe during one of those clinical trials. I even got paid for it.
Good money too.
I thought they were just collecting DNA, maybe some scans. But what if they actually used it?
I studied the face in the mirror.
Younger. Fresher. A little less saggy. The eyes still tired, the same lousy eyesight — but otherwise...
Well, damn.
Of course, one particular feature hadn't improved.
Still the same down there.
No sudden miracle growth.
Shame.
But movement caught my eye — outside the window.
Right.
It was her day.
The home attendant.
Young Polish girl. Freckled. Blushing. Smells like apples and laundry.
Stop thinking like that, I told myself.
But he wasn’t listening.
The lower part of me, I mean.
Reacting.
Like alive.
Like young.
I laughed nervously.
Very interesting.
What if they ask me for money again?
There’s always something.
Maintenance fees, rejuvenation upgrades, memory syncing…
But I don’t have a penny left. I barely had enough for tea and the damn pills.
Wait — what if I’m not the real one?
What if the real me is... already gone?
Burned.
Scattered.
And I — this version — am just the next model?
The door clicked.
She was here.
She stepped in — bright, pretty, all rosy cheeks and brisk footsteps.
She didn’t even flinch.
As if this — this whole new body, this younger face — was what she expected.
Maybe it was.
Maybe she knew all along.
Maybe she was in on it.
I looked at her, then at myself.
I was still me.
But I was also not.
And I thought, not for the first time:
Maybe I should sleep with her.