As he talks to me, I realize pretty quick that this isn’t his first drink, not even his third, so no wonder he doesn’t remember me. The face or any of it. But he’s smiling throughout. Not a cheap, kind of irritating smile, but the real kind. A “smile” smile. Chatting me up about who I work for, when I graduated, brand of bra. You know, the usual. Not slurring the words yet, but a stumble or two. When he whispers my cup size back to me I’m suddenly a 63C … now, maybe he’s dyslexic, but I don’t think so. A simple mistake, I figure; it’s the drink talking. I understand this, so I just grin, grin back at him and answer dutifully on everything he asks. Wondering if something I say will set off a bell in his head, maybe a whistle. Just a flicker even, somewhere in those tired, distant eyes of his.

Sitting there on the bed of his junior suite, twenty minutes later, I’m still half hoping he’ll remember me. It’d make this a whole bunch easier. Well, not easier, I suppose, but more like a reunion than some other kind of thing. Doesn’t really matter, I guess, but it’d certainly be interesting. As close as he comes is that I remind him of someone. He says this, more to himself than anything, as he’s pulling off his socks. You know, the thin, stretchy kind. He tugs at one reinforced toe as he stares at my belly button, eyes traveling down as he mumbles a name. I ask who she is, the name, say that I won’t be offended. But he turns back to his heel and says that it’s nothing. No one. Some lady from when he was younger, an ex-wife when I press him. I promise myself right then that if he spots me, figures it out somehow, a gesture or the way I raise my eyebrows, even, anything, then I’ll let him go. But he doesn’t. So I don’t.