The Wrong Umbrella

It was raining.
There was a stand by the door.

(I took the wrong umbrella)

A rooftop bar with the chairs going up.
A stand by the door with eleven umbrellas.
Mine is the cheap black one on the right.
Yours has a wooden handle and a strip of red tape.
A bent third spoke. A strip of red tape.
Somebody mended this and kept it,
which told me more than a profile would.
Four seconds of standing there,
which is three and a half seconds too long.
The rain doing what rain does to a doorway.
Then I picked it up.
Walked out into the rain carrying it
like a woman who has never stolen anything
and has just this minute decided to start.
The doorman said goodnight. I said goodnight.
My whole arm knew what my mouth was doing.
Ten steps to the corner. I didn't open it.
You don't open a thing you're planning to return.

I could say the light was bad.
I could say they look the same.
I could say a lot of things
and not one of them is why.

I did it on purpose

(on purpose)
and I'd do it on purpose again.
Red tape, wooden handle, your door —
the wrong umbrella.

Wrong one.

Wrong one.

(wrong one)
Bent spoke and red tape.

(red tape)
Wrong one.

(red tape)
Wrong one.

(wrong one)
On purpose, I know.

It's been eleven days in my hallway.
It has its own hook now. That's not good.
I've told my sister it was an accident
and my sister has known me since 1994.
She said one word. She said "right."
She has never said a longer sentence than that word.
She has also, I notice, not asked for it back
on my behalf, which is how I know she knows.
A bus goes past your street on Thursdays.
I know the stop. I know the bell.
I know exactly which window is warm.
I have been on it twice, not getting off.
Once as far as the buzzer panel,
six names, none of them pressed, and home.
Here's the thing about a stolen umbrella:
you can't keep it and you can't throw it away.
It just sits there in the hall being evidence
of a question I have not asked.
The red tape has started coming off.
I have not fixed it. I have thought about fixing it.
There is a version of me who fixes it
and knocks on your door and says here.
I have met her twice. She lives on the Thursday bus.

I could say I'm giving it back.
I could say I'm just being kind.
I could say a lot of things
and not one of them is why.

I did it on purpose

(on purpose)
and I'd do it on purpose again.
the wrong umbrella. The right one.

Wrong one.

Eleven days. Its own hook in the hall.
A strip of red tape coming loose
and a woman who will not fix it,
because fixing it means finishing it,
and finishing it means the knock.
...Rain again tonight. Look at that.

(what a coincidence)

Day nine. A receipt in the pocket.
Two coffees, ten past eight, my postcode.
Not your postcode. Mine.
A fifteen-minute walk from a man's own bed
for a drink he could have made at home.
Which is a long way from your street
for a man who was not looking for anybody.

You did it on purpose (on purpose) —
two coffees at ten past eight.
Two liars out in the rain —
the wrong umbrella. The right one.

Wrong one.

(red tape)
Wrong one.

Wrong one.

(wrong one)
On purpose, I know.