"Like a floating ball that's bound to break; Snap my psyche like a twig"

“Just a second. This dude looks like someone I know. I want to get a picture of him. He needs to know he has a doppleganger out there,” I absentmindedly say to my partner while we sit in the bar of a popular restaurant waiting for a table to be ready. My attention is split equally between a TV showcasing “America’s Ninja Warrior,” “America’s Unsolved Mysteries,” and the glass of pinot noir sitting in front of me on the white marble bar.

“No. You need to see this.”

He holds his cellphone centimeters from my face. I take hold of his hand and move it back. Casually, I look at the Facebook page.

A gasp escapes my lips.

No!

Fuck!

I can’t.

Immediately, I text my mom, neighborhood friends, and those who regularly listen to me vent.

“This is too much. Too close to home.”

He agrees.

It was just moments ago when we drove to the restaurant in his clunky old car that we decided to let go of our anger and confusion, and accept what we cannot change. As his noisy sedan passed through the sleepy streets of suburbia and into the neighboring state’s windy avenues, we noted the burglary could have been worse.

As his car warmed up and rain splattered the windshield, we discussed various what-if scenarios, the difference between a robbery and burglary, and even compared our minor home vandalism to that of “Home Alone’s” “Wet Bandits’” and their signature move to clog drains and leave faucets running when they left the scene of a break-in.

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that bad. Yes, it sucked, but it could have been worse.

I turn my attention back to the post in front of me: “A home invasion. Two assault victims. Car stolen.” It happened yesterday, on the coldest night of the year.

“Where is that?” he asks, still unfamiliar of the side streets to the town he’s called home for the past five years.

“It’s two streets over from us. Right across from the middle school,” I answer.

“Too close,” he adds.

"Too close," I repeat.

Today is day seven.