A Place in Memory

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

I saw the fat man with a beard again today. He had been a stranger kind enough to lend me half of his table at Starbucks. People are never that nice and honestly I thought it was a ploy to talk to me. Nope. He didn't interrupt me once while I was studying. I'm not sure what he was doing on his computer but it kept him fully occupied without being annoying. Tonight, I recognized him before he recognized me. I knew this because when he saw me, I gave him a small wave and the wave that he returned was slow and uncertain.

Undeterred, I said, “Hi.”

“Hey.” he said, blankly.

Taken back, I scrambled the social equivalent of a handrail. “How're you?”

“Pretty good and you?” he replied.

I could see the wheels in his head turning, trying to place who I was. Was I not that memorable? I thought I was cute enough to make some kind of impression. I wasn't interested in him. He was too old and definitely not my type but I felt he should remember me.

"Still studying organic chemistry." I said trying to jog his memory.


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