text: I am no fool. I know that my search will end in failure and yet I possess a stubbornness that cares not, for I accept that I will never meet Elizabeth again. Her friends are my friends no longer, and social media has provided me with an electronic wall of silence on the subject. With every passing month her rude invasions into my dreams are more vivid, her role in my thoughts more fantastic, and my development as an adult halted because of her absence. I assumed that the introduction of weed into my evening relaxation habits - introduced as a way of coping with the sheer heartbreak I was still suffering from - had increased the intensity of her image into my life, but even after giving it up, she remained. Were it not for a work colleague brushing her hair one dreary lunchtime, I would have been resigned to my Succubus for ever more. However, as I gazed across the office at Michelle’s long blonde hair dancing around her waist with every bite of the comb, I thought of those Sunday mornings in bed watching Elizabeth prepare for work, the bare bulb light saturating her hair as she straightened it with her battered brown brush. I snapped back to the present and realised that I could substitute my lost love with a simile, a mimic that could be my Elizabeth. Even a small percentage of Elizabeth could be enough! The challenge was to find a doppelganger that was Elizabeth enough to fool my obsessive heart. The next day I approached the woman who had inspired me and asked her for date. Sadly I was rejected hard; Michelle was married. I spent the next few days apologising whenever we passed in the office and, thankfully, she took in good spirits. Her role in my story was concluded, other than the occasional hair dance that sated my hunger for a few minutes. I was not one to seek romantic partners; it wasn’t that I lacked an appealing appearance, I just found it difficult to initiate a conversation from a cold start. Ironically my love for my ex-girlfriend was the catalyst for a romantic lifestyle. My first venture was online dating since I assumed that a passive list of people’s pictures would make for rapid and easy success. Unfortunately static pictures lacked the tiny nuances that I needed, for Elizabeth was an experience as well as a look. Regardless I began to contact those who had long blond hair and green eyes with a hope that they may possess other Elizabethan traits. My first potential candidate was a petite, bordering on frail, girl called Kammy who lacked Elizabeth’s height but otherwise was a general match. We met in a restaurant and talked about the bland vapid subjects expected between two people that knew little of each other. It was when the date was concluded that I realised I had hit paydirt; Kammy put on a pair of very large dark glasses as we went to leave, and suddenly I was looking at the face of Elizabeth. Her chin, mouth, and cheek were an exact match, and I stumbled out a request for another date. Thankfully she agreed. The next date took place at a local pub of mine, with the expectation that we would go back to my flat afterwards. We had flirted over text throughout the week, and I was certain she was as keen on me as I was on her. I took her to bed that night and suggested that she wear a blindfold to replicate the image of Elizabeth from before, but my eagerness to have sex diminished as I climbed between her legs and stared into her face; Elizabeth was not there, not anymore. I made a half-hearted attempt to please both of us but I could tell that we shared a disappointment afterwards. I did not hear from her again. My next Elizabeth project was a friend of a friend called Sarah. I use the term clone, as her physical attributes were perfectly Elizabethan, and I almost hugged my friend when he sent me a picture of her. We arranged to go on a cinema viewing followed by late drinks; a strange date, but one that she had suggested so I felt obliged to comply. We met outside the complex and exchange brief words before sitting next to each other in complete silence for two hours. After the conclusion of the by-the-numbers film we sat in a nearby bar and then talked about absolutely nothing until last orders, then got into separate taxis and headed home. In bed I smiled at the ludicrousness of the date and lamented the waste of a potentially-perfect Elizabeth mimic. That was until my phone beeped with a message from Sarah thanking me for the night, with a request for another date. During the second date I realised that Sarah was the perfect physical representation of Elizabeth, almost as if someone had created her from the same blueprint. However, the creation process had omitted a personality, for she was bereft of any kind of original thought. She had no opinion, no likes or dislikes, no hobbies, passions, or skills. At first I thought this to be a huge disadvantage, but then corrected myself; I was on a quest for an Elizabeth substitute, and here was an Elizabeth body with a blank mind. I sustained conversation with Herculean-effort, helped along by wine and beer, then asked her if she wanted to be in a relationship with me. She agreed without hesitation; I wondered whether she would say no to anything. I started her transition into Elizabeth, buying her gifts that Elizabeth would have appreciated and introducing her to the same interests that Elizabeth had. She accepted all of this without question, but without opinion either. I bought her horror books which she read but did not give any judgement on. I introduced her to the same computer games that Elizabeth played; she participated like an automaton, competed neither well or poor, and had no passion for winning or losing. The sex was surprisingly energetic, but again was methodical as if going through an instruction manual of positions and duration. I woke up one morning and watched my new Elizabeth brush her hair in the morning light of her bedroom. The blond danced, the comb scratched, the clips held, but suddenly I was appalled by the the skinwalker that had slipped into the Elizabeth-sized hole to forever remind me that she was not her. At that moment she turned to me and smiled with a horrific long blank face, the familiarity close enough to chill me to the nerve. I cried out and hid under the sheets until she left for work. I hurried out of her house and never spoke to her again. Post-Sarah was my lowest moment in my life. I had tried recruiting an Elizabeth substitute, and had tried to create an Elizabeth mimic, but neither had succeeded. The honest truth, the reality that I had tried throwing people in front of, was that the only Elizabeth that could satisfy my hunger was Elizabeth. This new realisation gave me a care-not attitude and I decided to indulge in a significant amount of MDMA; I needed to escape from my own self, if only for a few hours. I did not know what to expect or how much to take, so took all three of the pills, sat on my sofa and closed my eyes to await the effects. There was a growing euphoria that I began to enjoy which disappeared quite suddenly, like a beautiful song that had been cut short. I received an epiphany several moments after and I searched through Elizabeth’s old love letters until I found her parent’s phone number, which I didn’t think I had. Against my better judgement I called the number, aware that I was probably under the influence of drugs still, and was suddenly talking to Elizabeth’s father. I had the vaguest recollection of attending his funeral some time ago and yet he was at the other end of the telephone, the same warm and witty man that I remembered with some fondness. Time must have muddled my memory. I left a message and a contact number, with a breezy message in the hope that Elizabeth would not be disturbed by my sudden reappearance. I did not have long to wait and was contacted via text moments later. I retained my breezy demeanour and arranged a friendly catch-up at a bar in an hour. It was fortunate that the exchange was via text; I do not think my voice would have held out if I had been talking to her. I arrived early to secure a good seat near the entrance. My mind conjured up the next few hours and what would come of it. Did she hold dear the same memories as I? Did she too look at the same pictures and disappear into remembrance, listen to the same songs, and revisit the same places? And then she was there, the same almond face, long hair, green eyes, and slender gait that suggested casual athleticism. To my eye she had not aged one day since we split up. Her eyes met mine and my stomach spasmed. I went into automatic response, greeted her, exchanged default pleasantries that we looked well and that it had been too long. I took the opportunity to buy her a drink to gather my thoughts. My Elizabeth was here, the person who was the focus of both my waking and unconscious thoughts. I ordered a gin and tonic - still her favourite drink it would seem - and stole a quick glance behind me. She was poised on her chair looking back at me, seemingly-unfazed by our meet-up. What did I expect her to be like? A quivering repentant mess of emotions, or complete indifference to the situation? I took her drink to the table and sat opposite, studying the details of her to add to my faux Elizabeth of my mind. She was exactly the same as I remembered her; always with small earrings that glinted as brightly as her eyes; a thin gold necklace because thicker necklaces looked gaudy against her long thin neck; the eternity ring that I had bought her as a precursor for an engagement. I reeled from the recognition and grabbed her hand. It was without doubt the eternity ring I had given her, dull cheap silver with curled etchings running along its length. My panic wasn’t because she was still wearing it after 20 years, but because I had it locked up in my box of remembrance, ever-ready to bring out to reflect upon. I stared at her but she put a finger on my lips and would not let me speak. I tried again, my confusion escalating, but her finger was firm and strong. The pub dissolved around us and I was suddenly in her arms, her face filling my vision as she kissed me tenderly. I thought to fight this new false pretender, but her embrace was everything I had yearned for. I relented and sank into her, rested my head against her chest, listened to her slowing heart beat, her breath in my ear. At that moment I understood that she had returned to comfort me as I died, the remnants of her love my final protector against the terror of my overdose. For the briefest of moments, before eternity swept me away, I was content that she was mine again.