There are two guys fighting in the street, so I cross to the other side but keep watching them out of the corner of my eye. They are puffing out their chests, and I can tell they both want to hit each other but are afraid of getting hit back. It’s coming off of them like sweat or sound waves. People are heading out of restaurants and into bars, and apart from those two guys, the area looks a little bit nicer than it did last time I was here, and I figure that my dad was right to buy around here when it was still crappy and cheap. There is a burger place that is dressed up for hipsters, and a little clothing shop that looks like everything is made for fairies and twee musicians. I admire a necklace in the window that has arrows pointing in different directions. As I turn the corner, it sounds like the two men have decided to each get the last loud, furious word before parting ways. Neither of them is ready to say good-bye.

I see the coffee shop, with its sign made of reclaimed lumber. I stand at the window and notice that Eleanor is behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. I came all this way, but now I’m so nervous I have trouble going in. Eleanor has an apron tied around her tiny waist, and her black hair is in one of those fancy braids that looks like a fish bone. She looks pretty and untroubled, and I wonder if I should leave her alone and not push open the door and bring with me all my me-ness.

The door chimes as I open it, and she turns and smiles wide at me.

“Hi,” I say, shyly, looking down.

“Hey there,” she says. Then, “What can I getcha?”

I blink, then realize. She doesn’t remember me.

“Oh,” I say, like one of those idiots who is surprised they’re being asked what they want when there’s a line behind them. Except there isn’t a line behind me. There are a lot of people at tables, clicking away on laptops with oversized coffee mugs beside them, and none of them are looking at me, but I still feel stupid. “Oh. I’ll have, a, uh, a tea, please.” I hate tea.

“Sure. I have a nice English Breakfast; how’s that?”

“Great.”

She turns to make it, and I blurt out, “To go, please!” and knock over a little stack of granola bars. She nods, no problem, just chipper as can be.

I’m outside again, with a cup of tea, and my face is burning. I guess Dad has no photos of me up anywhere, and I’m obviously not memorable. Big surprise there.