#body swapper

You ever wake up and feel like a different person?

I don’t mean emotionally—I mean literally. Like, the hands you use to rub your eyes aren’t yours. The breath in your lungs tastes different. That’s me. I’m a body hopper.

Not in the sci-fi movie way. Not with machines or wires. Just… me. I look at someone, I want it bad enough, and click—I’m them. They get stuck with the leftovers.

The guy I woke up as today? Some chubby older dude I met last night. Kind eyes, decent apartment, soft in all the places I used to be sharp. I sat on the edge of his bed, scratched his belly absentmindedly, and slid on his glasses. They pinched the bridge of my nose—but I could see just fine.

I made toast. Bitter coffee. Watched sunlight hit the kitchen tiles like it always had for him.

Then he—me—came shuffling out of the bedroom, rubbing my old face like it was still his.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. Just asked, “Why?”

I shrugged. “You looked like you needed a break.”

He blinked. Looked down at his—my—arms. His mouth tugged up at the corners. Like he agreed.

Then he found the car keys and just… left. Just like that.

I stayed in that guy a few days. Took walks in his worn sneakers. Watched TV in his recliner. But it wore thin. Comfort turns stale fast.

So I swapped into a flight attendant. Caught him on his walk to the terminal. Made some joke, shook his hand, and that was it. His name was Marco. Liked bad cologne and didn’t believe in socks. I wore the uniform. Made flirty comments. Rode red-eyes across the country like I’d done it for years.

But two weeks later, I met Larry.

Loud. Sweaty. Arrogant. He was yelling at staff mid-flight. I couldn’t resist.

The second we landed, I traded skins with him.

I should’ve known better.

His whole body complained. His joints, his neck, even his eyebrows felt annoyed. He was just naturally grating. I stuck it out for one day, then bailed.

I grabbed a cab. The driver had a thick accent and big dreams. He said he wished he’d been born American. I told him, “What if I could make that happen?”

He said yes before I finished the pitch.

The cab smelled of stale food and worn plastic. Customers barked orders. Laughed at the way I mispronounced streets.

But cab life was brutal. Smells, stares, crap pay. I hadn’t even mastered yet. I lasted 36 hours.

Then one of my customers was a priest.

He was kind. Real. Said he saw something dark in me and wanted to help.

I said I believed him.

Then I took him.

He chased me to the chapel door, shouting I had promised not to. Said he trusted me.

I looked back once. “You still helped,” I said.

Then I smiled, adjusted the collar, and stepped into the pulpit.