Whenever my girlfriend puts up pictures of her younger self on facebook for throwback thursday, I imagine the two of them meeting on the streets of Oakland and going on a bank robbery spree.

They wear ski masks like Pussy Riot.

Neon green and hot pink, respectively.

Hot pink proves herself to be a prodigy. Shoots a fat man in the eye before he can even get close to the panic button.

Nice going, kid, says neon green as they run to the getaway car, handguns hidden beneath pea coats, dead presidents trailing behind in a cloud.

Neon green knows the owner of a hooker motel, where they lay low, watching HBO, one of them picking up McDonalds and slurpees from 7-11, neon green smoking weed with the dealer next door, while hot pink talks to the working girls—there is one named Trina that likes the Emily Dickinson poetry book that hot pink always carries with her.

One of them, usually hot pink, stays in the room to keep watch over the Gucci luggage at all times.

Hot pink and Trina develop a friendship.

Trina starts coming into their room more and more while neon green is away.

I think I got one of them poems memorized, says Trina.

Let’s see, says hot pink.

We play at Paste —

Till qualified, for Pearl —

Then, drop the Paste —

And deem ourself a fool —

The Shapes — though — oh no I forgot the rest.

Let me see that book again.

They search around the bed. Hot pink looks through the empty drawers. Trina opens the closet and slips a hand into one of the Gucci bags—as hot pink says no don’t—and takes out a stack of dead presidents.

Hot pink swears Trina to secrecy. Trina goes to bed dreaming of running away with hot pink. The next morning they begin whispering of Miami where all things are beautiful.

Two detectives come around asking questions.

Neon green says they need to do one last job before leaving town.

Someone should stay in the getaway car this time, says hot pink, response times will probably be quicker than last time. I can go in alone.

Nah kid, says neon green, softly pinching one of hot pink’s bubbly cheeks, you wait in the car.

Neon green walks into the bank. Hot pink drives off in the getaway car.

Neon green gets twenty to life.

Neon green does 500 push ups a day in her cell.

Neon green plots her escape.

Neon green contemplates the world-ending consequences of cutting open her doppelgänger’s throat, while her cellmate tatts up her arm to say:

Fuck the Paradox.

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Luis Silva is the editor of Electric Cereal. His writing has been published in glitterMOB, Luna Luna, and Metatron. His work as a translator has been featured in Adult and Shabby Doll House.