Wrong Name on My File

The receptionist called me Im-ssi. Twice. Then asked, across the lobby, in front of four people, whether I wanted the cleaning fee on my file. My file. The file of a person named Im, with a birthday I do not have and a blood type I do not have. I said yes to the fee. I paid cash. I did not tell her I am not Im-ssi because I am too well-trained to make a scene in a lobby, even when the lobby is not mine.

I sat on a Jongno bench and put my own intake sheet into a plastic evidence sleeve and photographed it. My arm hurt the whole time. The bloom on the chair was still visible through the gauze when I walked out and someone else's name was sitting on top of my data and I had to be the one to point it out. I should not have had to point it out. I am going to call Bae Yu-jin and I am going to say subpoena and I am going to use the word because it costs them money and I want it to.

When I got home I took a selfie. Two of them, fairy lights, grey tank, soft smile. The smile is not lying — it is just tired of the fight by the time the flash goes. I look at those photos and I know exactly which woman in them I am. The other Park Seo-yeon on the clinic sheet is the one I am trying to undo on that wall.

I lay on the floor among the plants and touched the bandage once. The panel above the low bookshelf has a new pin in it. I am calling it WRONG NAME. The drawer stays closed. Tomorrow or the day after, red ink again.