Stolen Identity

I would have stolen his heart, if I could have found it.  The closest thing I could reach was his wallet he harbored in his left shirt pocket that made him tick.  He was the only man I knew who carried a wallet above the waist.  I came to find out it was because he favored women’s jeans, jeans without pockets.  He liked the way they contoured his buttocks, his hips and hid his belongings up front.
     
Some say he was a man in a woman’s body or visa versa.  That didn’t change the shape of his heart, or the shape of the situation I’d come to put myself in--wanting him, or her, inclusively.
     
The day I took the wallet I learned more about his heart and his identity.  He was a donor, for one.  He was also licensed to drive in Kansas and Oklahoma, not just Minnesota.  His state mugs gave the impression of versatility of character with the exception of the pocketed shirts that stood out in every photo; his one consistency.
     
Along with three state licenses, I found an excerpt from Heart of the Hunter: “Do you know where you are going when you die…do you know?”
 
Where he’d gone since our last night together seven weeks ago, I had no idea.  He gave me no forewarning, unless you could say that his insistence on needing time alone was an act of warning.  I read between the lines however, and promised him that my pursuit, if he were to rally in a chase, would never cease.  I gave him fair warning; he would never be alone again.
     
I tried tracking him down, driving under the influence of NoDoze into the Land of Oz obsessed.  Being left behind does strange things to one’s thinking, and before long I took on his identity.  I kept his wallet in oversized shirts with breast pockets.  I cut my hair to resemble his in his Kansas photo, and I lost weight unconsciously by continuing to eat NoDoze and forgetting food.
     
It wasn’t until I was stopped for swerving on a back road in Kansas that the importance of his wallet caught up with me.  I handed the cop his license.  I watched him read it carefully and then glared at my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses, almost giddy at how much I had come to resemble him.  The cop took the license and asked me for my vehicle registration.  I smiled and handed him hers, mine, ours.  He walked back to his car while I waited patiently knowing I was a multitudinous donor, knowing exactly where I was going when death’s dew materialized on the horizon.  My heart would locate his, in some cryptic science lab.  If ticking, it would send science on an obsessive hunt for a new identity to inhabit and harbor.  We would be given numbers, and our names and faces would remain obtuse, pockets of versatilities of character.  Our hearts found, and we would finally be one.