I received yesterday a packet of letters, news clippings, and photos, all about me. They’re more flattering than compromising, nonetheless I feel demeaned, violated. There’s no return address, but the front label’s handwriting is distinctive, even familiar, and so I go to a graphology expert who, after examining it, says the handwriting looks just like mine. “Absurd,” I reply, even after shown the near-identical loops, slants, lines. “And not a forgery, either,” he continues, “though the packet’s contents probably are.” “Sir, you’re the fraud,” I exclaim. “Perhaps,” he sighs, removing his eyepiece, “we both are.”

I remove mine too. We glower at each other.