“I think you’re in the wrong…” the rest of my sentence dies in my throat.

Because the person sitting at my desk is ME.

I open and close my mouth in quick succession, still hardly believing what I’m seeing. “What’s happening? This is my-“

“My office, Charlie,” the other me says tiredly, “now, believe it or not, I’m trying to work.”

I set my briefcase beside the door, only to see an identical one already there. Only where mine is scuffed and peeling at the edges, this one looks brand new.

“This can’t be happening,” I say - quite literally to myself. “How is it even possible?”

The other me sighs quite dramatically, putting down his pen with Herculean effort. “Upper management called me in. Said you were slacking and rather thought you could do with a productivity boost.”

“Well, that’s a bit rude,” I reply, “they could’ve sent me a verbal warning at least.”

The other me points to the bin beside my desk. “They already did. You have a habit of throwing them out.”

“Then you’ll have that habit too,” I mutter, shoving my hands in my pockets, watching the other me’s eyes narrow.

“I think you’ll find I respond much better to upper management,” he says tersely, “I’m writing them an email as we speak.”

My stomach clenches, the tuna sandwich I had for lunch threatening to reappear like a poorly timed magic act. “What are you saying?”

“The truth.” The other me shrugs. “Your reluctance to accept upper management’s decision to support you-“

“By CLONING me!”

“And your determination to ignore all correspondence from them-“

“Because it’s, like, pages of reading. Why can’t they sum it up in a sentence?”

“Not to mention you’re incapacity for letting others speak.”

I clamp my mouth shut on my readying retort.

“And, oh dear,” the other me says sarcastically, “I’m not sure you’ll even be able to proofread it for me. It’s pages of reading.”

“I… I…”

“That’s nice,” the other me presses send with a flourish of his hand, “now if you must sit in here, could you at least do so quietly. I have work to do.”