She asked midsentence leaned across—

She asked mid-sentence, leaned across—

is that a birthmark—like she'd note

a price tag left on something.

I said yes. She cleared her throat

and took us back to Q3.

Four people. Nobody paused.

I sat behind my face and smiled

through whatever slide was causing

the most confusion. I waited.

After, I found the bathroom stall,

tilted my neck at the mirror

to an angle I'd never tried at all—

and there it was. Brown. Small.

About a thumbprint pressed and dried.

I've had it my whole life.

Not once did I look. Not tried

to find it. Karen's home by now.

She asked a question like a stranger

reads a sign and walks on.

I'm still here. Head tilted. Stranger

to my own neck. Fluorescent.

Forty-three years and I looked.

I don't know what I expected.

I don't know what it took.