My apartment building has 24 units; 12 on each side. Every so often I run into a very nice couple from the other side. I imagine she is in her early seventies and he must be pushing eighty. He’s a quiet fellow who, when with his wife, usually limits conversation to a nod and a hello. When he’s on his own he is a little more talkative.
On the other hand she is a true conversationalist who likes to talk about local issues – gossip – as well as books among other topics. She has a wonderful sense of humour and can be very witty. I have had numerous chats with her in the laundry room, lobby or at the mail boxes. The only problem is that for some reason she thinks my name is John.
I can’t recall if I ever introduced myself properly or not, but either way at some point she got the impression that I am John. The first couple of times she referred to me as John it was in passing and I just thought I had misheard. But now I’ve let it go too long to just say Oh by the way ….
I figure I have two options: continue our repartee as is and just let the John references slide, or I can point out the error. If I go with the first choice I live a lie, a small fib is perhaps a better term. If I opt for door number two, I risk having my neighbour feel like a fool – why didn’t you tell me sooner? – even if the fault is mine. Choices choices …