You know that awkward feeling you get when you’re talking to someone you see around all the time but you don’t know their name and you’re too self-conscious to ask because it’s been so long? That’s happening right now.

Me and this guy have been on each other’s radars for years. Our kids went to preschool together and we exchange a bit of smalltalk when we bump into one another about town. It happens somewhat frequently and it’s uncomfortable. At least for me.

It’s not just that I don’t know his name. I also don’t know who his kid is, an unfortunate oversight my adrenaline navigates with roundabout questions like “How’s the little one?” and “What school are you guys at again?” He responds and I feign interest with a forced smile, nodding and replying mono-syllabically, an excellent tool for keeping someone talking even though that’s the last thing I want right now.

And talk he does, the nameless man with the faceless child, but about what I do not know. The cafe is bustling, and the combination of noisy patrons, canned pop tunes, and some barista banging the hell out of the steel countertop with that little metal thing the espresso goes into creates a cacophony in my mind that drowns out his unusually low speaking volume. I watch his lips and when they stop moving ask another question.

I can’t help myself. I want to be nice. I don’t want him to think I’m a dick. He mumbles on and I watch and nod and “mm” and taste metal, palms sweating. Then this chick walks by and out the corner of my eye I catch her tits bouncing under a loose blouse and start to feel alright again. I smile, shake his hand, say it was great to see him.

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