The Other One

He called me Marcus the whole time—

three minutes outside the hardware store.

I didn't correct him. Not a crime

to let it go. I've done it before,

let someone build the wrong person

out of a face they half-remembered.

Marcus. Yeah. The conversation

went on. I nodded. I surrendered

nothing, technically. He talked.

His sister, a bar, some street repair.

He waved before he fully walked

away. Already somewhere.

I sat in the car and counted it:

five times I answered to that name.

Not nervous. Didn't miss a beat.

Just there. Which is almost the same.