A projectile something catches the corner of my eye, and I see that Nathan has just lobbed his sock out of his stroller in a fit. I also notice that his mom is stuffing all her items back into a myriad of bags, and stroller hooks, and a large underseat compartment that is stretched below Nathan’s purple, contorting body.

I start to gather up my belongings when . . .

What’s this?

No. It can’t be.

But it is. It’s I Am Legend, who has picked up a snack cup that has rolled underneath the large table and is now chatting with Nathan’s mom.

“Need any help?” she asks. She then looks at Nathan, opens her mouth wide, crosses her eyes, and makes a bizarre gargling sound.

Immediately, Nathan breaks out into a fit of giggles.

“Oh, God, please,” Nathan’s mom says. “If you could just keep doing that, I would be forever grateful.”

“No problem,” Legend responds before kneeling down to Nathan’s level. “Did you know I once won a face-making contest? It’s because my tongue can touch my nose. See?” She demonstrates.

“Wow,” Nathan responds, eyes wide. He sticks out his own short tongue which, of course, just goes straight out.

“The key is to practice,” Legend says. “Every day, for at least twenty minutes. And, I’ll tell you a secret . . .” She looks around, and whispers, “Cafés are the best place to practice. I learned everything I know while my mom was drinking her coffee.”

Nathan nods studiously, while his mom looks at Legend like the Sunshine State is, in fact, beaming out of her ass.

“Thank you,” she mouths, tears practically in her eyes, as she strolls a face-making—and therefore silent—Nathan, and his rack of luggage, out of the café.

Legend smiles after them and I can’t help noticing what a bright smile she has. It’s all dimples. I’ve never seen her smile before, and the distraction costs me; sometime during that exchange, she has managed to place her bag right on the seat Nathan’s mom just vacated. She glances over at me. Her smile disappears and it’s like the sun has gone behind a cloud.

Let it not be said I’m a poor sport, however. I give her a slow clap, and she takes a little bow before sitting down with a flourish. I roll my eyes, but, privately, I have to admit I’m pretty impressed. Maybe MTM is going to make it after all.

Nathan’s sock, on the other hand, is doomed to haunt the café floor for the rest of eternity—or at least until the barista sweeps up—reminding us all of his lengthy and memorable residency at Café Crudité. And also reminding me that I should call my mom.