Margen
Every March 14th, the restaurant downstairs calls to confirm my reservation. Table for two, under my name, at nine. For four years I've been telling them I never booked anything, and every year the manager reads my own phone number back to me with the patience of a civil servant.
This year I went down. To get past the embarrassment, to eat well on a Friday. The table was by the window, two glasses poured and one chair already pulled back, as if someone had just stood up.
I dined alone, and it was good. With the coffee, the manager brought me a folded note: 'Don't miss it next year. It's getting harder and harder to remember your face.'
I didn't recognise the handwriting. I put the note in my wallet, next to my ID, where we keep the things that prove who we are.