Maybe I shouldn’t have got that triple shot…
But how does she know my name?
The thing is, this keeps happening to me. People recognising me in places I haven’t been, asking me why I’m back there already, saying they just saw me. People who know my name when they shouldn’t know my name. It’s been going on for a full week, at least, and it started right about the time my stalker turned up.
The obvious conclusion is he’s trying to steal my identity. That he’s taken mail out of my bin to figure out who I am, and now he’s using my name around the place. But why me? My credit’s shot, I have no money or assets to steal. What the hell does he think he’s going to find in my crappy studio apartment? Other than me…
But even then, none of that explains why random people are physically mistaking this guy for me. What’s he got, a face mask or something?
I’m not in this cafe every day. I have a rotation of warm places whose hospitality I routinely abuse. I change a lot so I don’t overstay my welcome. This is generally my Monday morning cafe, so the barista should recognise me, but sheshouldn’t know my name any more than I know hers. She doesn’t even remember my order after all this time. I wonder why I—he—stuck out so much to her today, that of all the people still queuing steadily, she rememberedmyname.
I look up as my coffee cup taps down on my table. She’s already walking away when I call out, “Um, excuse me?”
She turns back with such a dead-eyed stare I feel guilty for bothering her. But this is important. So, of course, I get straight to it.
“Can I get some toast, please?”You don’t want toast. You’re poor!
That same stare. “With what?”
“With um… uh…”What’s cheap?“Just… butter?”
I’ve ordered the cheapest food on the menu. She hates me for ordering the cheapest food on the menu.
I need to order something more expensive.
No!
Stop it!
Silence stretches until she asks, “Anything else?”
Say it!“Um. Not food, but… the guy who was in here this morning…”
Her face turns prettier when a smile appears. The first one she’s ever given me. “August?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah.Him. Um… Was he…” My hand settles on my chest. “Was he dressed like me? Similar?”How far is he taking the impersonation thing?
Her hip juts out, head tilting. She looks at my shirt, and I’m well aware of how crumpled it is. This is literally the shirt I wore to bed. Why the hell did I take my hoodie off?
The fierce fire of the heaters turns my cheeks even pinker than my embarrassment has, and I remember why.
She says, “No.” But then her eyebrows do a little waggle thing. She looks back at the line, as if my stalker might bestanding there, then follows up with the harrowing, “No, he was dressed well.”
Great. My identity-stealing stalker dresses better than me. No surprise, I guess, given it’s his fault I look like shit today.
“That’s so weird,” she muses, looking me over again. “I could have sworn it was you. But you did say your name is August?”
At this point, I have no idea if I said that or not. I must have, so I agree, weakly. “Yeah. It is.”
Like it’s her closing argument in a courtroom drama, “How else would I have known that?”
That’s exactly what I need to know. But I have no idea what to say to her now. What to even ask her. My face must have dropped like my heart has, because she surprises me with an empathetic tsk before sliding into the seat opposite. “Is something wrong?”
I stare into her face, her pretence of tired and annoyed customer service having slipped away to something real. I want to tell her. I want to say, ‘Please, if he comes again, let me know. Call the police. Keep him here. Do something.Helpme.’
But how mad am I going to sound when I tell her I have a stalker who seems to be my double, who I’ve never actually seen beyond a glimpse, who’s taking my things, right down to my name?
Then she stretches her hand across the table, resting it flat on the wood, not quite touching my arm, her green eyes all sympathy beneath her lilac fringe. “He’s doing great, okay?”
