I got here about fifteen minutes ago. I snagged the last available table, which felt lucky, and as I sat down and opened my laptop, I glanced over and noticed the woman at the table next to me—a blonde in a business suit and thick-rimmed glasses sitting with a group of men in business suits and thick-rimmed glasses. At first I thought she caught my eye because she bears a striking resemblance to Scarlett Johansson, but suddenly I realized that I recognized her from real life, too. I only had to think for a few seconds more before I came up with it: she was one of the actual PR students from that time I pretended to be a PR student so I could get backstage at the Junos. I was running the media room and she was driving the winners around backstage in a go-cart. We both had arm injuries (I'd sustained mine the night before, when two drunk men were hugging each other and fell on top of me—please tell me you remember all of this?*) and we were both stressed to the max because the whole thing was a lot more intense than we'd anticipated (especially me, being a complete and total imposter—I wonder if she knew?). We bonded over our shared stress, our shared injuries, and our shared Michael Buble experiences (he was the host that year). I haven't seen her since. I should go over and say hi. I probably won't.
Seeing her makes me feel all happy and wistful and nostalgic. That weekend was funny. I used to think about it all the time, but now it feels like it happened to someone else, in a TV show I saw once a long time ago. Probably because it happened pre-Sullivan, when I was living in the Village and getting up to all kinds of shenanigans, things I have neither time nor energy nor babysitting money for these days.
But there she is. She still exists in this city. She's gotten a little older (about four years older, by my estimation), and she looks very professional and happy. She's, like...I'm trying to put my finger on it...proof that that other version of myself still exists too. Does that make sense? (I don't make sense, sometimes.)
I really should say hi. But it'll be weird if she doesn't remember me. A compromise: if I catch her eye, I'll smile at her.
Nevermind, she's gone now. Left while I had my head down.
Oh well, she's still out there. Maybe I'll see her again in another four years, and maybe then she'll remind me of this quiet afternoon, writing in a coffee shop, and I'll feel all happy and wistful and nostalgic over it.
PS: Right as I hit Publish, another familiar person walked in: my manager from when I was a cashier at Staples. I do not feel any level of nostalgia or wistfulness over that.
*In case you don't, click here.