“Is your name Gromley?”
“What?” Mel, sitting alone on the bench, looked up from his cellphone to the stranger with a Chihuahua.
“Gromley? Frank Gromley?”
“No.”
“I could’ve sworn you were him. Frank, I mean.”
“My name’s Mel.”
The Chihuahua, named Pepe, wanted to pee over Mel’s trouser leg. It was obvious. It whimpered and shook as though chilled.
“I haven’t seen Frank since high school. You could be his double. You’ve the same kind of posture…”
“Sorry, my name’s Mel.”
What kind of posture was he talking about? Mel sat up straighter on the wooden slats.
“You weren’t in the correctional facility with Frank, were you?”
“What?”
“You just look like a guy who might’ve been there.”
“No, it wasn’t me.”
“Not out of the facility, huh? And not one of Frank’s relatives, by any chance? I mean, they all had that same kind of vacant expression.”
Mel tried to stop fumbling with his cellphone. ” I can’t say I’m a relative either.”
“No kidding? It’s hard to believe you’re not at least one of the Gromleys.”
“No, I’ve never been a Gromley.”
Was Mel even thinking before he spoke? Never been a Gromley?
The stranger, too, looked at him oddly after hearing that, then yanked the leash. “Well, c’mon, Pepe.”
The dog had finally finished urinating over the trousers.
David Sydney is a physician.