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She Ain’t Me, Babe

The credit union’s closing rooms had glass walls, and from our middle spot, we could see the goings-on in the rooms to the right and left of us.

At one point I looked across the table and saw a man in the next room who seemed to be looking at me. I shrugged it off and kept working on the paperwork before me. When I looked his way again a bit later, he again was staring, so I semi-smiled at him.

While waiting for the closing attorney to bring back checks, I excused myself to head to the ladies’ room. As I walked back, the rubbernecker from the next room was waiting for me. “Hello,” I said as I tried to walk back to my closing. “C’mon, Kim, you need to say more than that after all these years,” he replied.

“Whaaaaaaaat?” (I’m articulate to a fault sometimes.)

“Really, Kim. After 15 years, you gotta lighten up and accept my apology,” he tells me.

“Listen, sir,” I say. “I don’t know you and my name’s not Kim.”

“Fine, be mad. But don’t insult me,” he barks as I edge into the room.

I relate the story and everyone in the room is laughing. Sure enough, all of them turn and stare at Mr. Mistaken Identity, who promptly turns red in the face.

Kim, I’m on your side. If he can’t even accurately remember what you look like, he’s not worth forgiving.

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