There is nothing more disconcerting than being felt up by a total stranger, I thought as he apologized profusely, his face bright red.

In the crowded art gallery he had mistaken me for his wife -- an honest mistake, same height, same straight, brown hair.

Before he realized his error, he had stood behind me and wrapped his arm around my waist, just under my breasts. He had pulled me close and whispered in my ear, "Hi, Teddy." His breath was warm and smelled of peppermint.

That Sunday afternoon, while analyzing Grace Slick's artwork in a beachfront gallery, I had taken over someone's identity and stolen an intimate moment with her husband, and she would never get it back.