It can’t be a coincidence.
Those are petty little flukes making up the fodder of small conversation when you just want to persist with your day but this neighbor knows you’re fascinated with her gardening trials and tribulations. Calling it a coincidence is the literary Hallmark trademark on a perhaps supernatural bending of time and space to save the lives of two people drowning in their heads. Or maybe it’s a disregard for the lovey-dovey aspect of truth, which no matter how much of a Daria-worshipping (not really, that’s emotion, which isn’t ironic) “nihilist” you are, is true. There’s always been a time when you’re standing in the shower and the water slowly descending down your torso, tickling your nerve-endings is only a tease and all you could ever wish for in that moment
is
a body
One with warmth and a moan that harmonizes with your own so you clutch that shower head and mull over that one scene in your head until you memorize the bumps on their skin and hope to God your dead grandparent doesn’t hear you