Her Version

She called on Sunday. Mentioned, in passing,

she'd told her friend I was almost done.

Almost finished. She was still casting

the story before I'd begun

to say a word. I said yeah, almost.

The syllable that ends a call.

Her voice went pleased. I stood, coast

clear, and let the version fall

wherever it was going to land—

her friend's kitchen, probably. Her friend's

sense of who I am. I put the phone face-down.

The sink. The window. The thin gray ends

of afternoon. The thing on the shelf

I haven't touched in months. I'm wearing

her version now. I can feel the self

of it—the arms a little long, the bearing

slightly off, the collar wrong.

Some almost-done version of me

walking around in her story.

It's Tuesday. I haven't called.

The coat is still on.