He Returned the Wallet I Hadn't Lost Yet

A man stopped me at the Saturday market. Fifty-ish, canvas jacket, in a hurry the way helpful strangers are. 'You dropped this,' he said, pressed a wallet into my hands, and was two stalls away before I could form a sentence.

It was my wallet. Brown leather, the deep scratch across one corner from the airport carousel in Athens, the stitching repair I had done myself with dental floss. Mine, unmistakably — except my wallet was at home on the hall table, where I had left it that morning, having gone out with just a card in my phone case, a decision I had grumbled about at the market's first cash-only stall twenty minutes earlier.

I stood there holding it, and I want to be honest about the sensation: it was the exact wrongness of meeting a photocopy of your own hand. I did not open it there. I do not know why. I carried it home like something asleep.

The hall table was empty. My wallet — the home one, the original, whichever word applies — was gone. We turned the house over. Nothing. It had been there at nine; my wife had seen it; at noon it did not exist.