I've become infatuated with a certain dish at a certain newish lunch spot near the office. I go there most days now and order this one thing. The staff know me. The order-taker grins as I approach in line. He steadies the little pad of paper neck high, elbows tucked in, and poises the pen tip on the pad, almost writing but not actually writing it out. And then he looks up at me with just his eyes and waits, that toothy grin growing sinister and the moment congealing. So I say it, say it loud and lightning fast, because he knows what I'm going to say anyway and I can't stand the tension anymore. "Almost rawr!" Before the first bellowed syllable has arced across the countertop he's already scrawled it out on the pad. Riiip! He tears it off and hands the carbon copy to me. There's a symbol of some kind, the dish's indecipherable formula, and my name, circled. Just then, my name again, this time hailing from the kitchen. It's the head cook! She's saying hi, and waving. She has to stoop below the order slips clipped to the top of the window. "How's it going, Helen!?" I say, "Good!" Then it's time to pay. A different person, but he still knows my order. He says, "You probably have this memorized by now, but I don't yet." I begin to say that I haven't been keeping track, but then he says, like a line in the play we are acting everyday, "I'm sorry, I should know your name by now but I don't." To which I reply, on cue, "Oh, no worries. I don't expect you to remember my name." We both feel better. I move to the end of the queue of people waiting for food. Maybe I noodle on the iphone or think work thoughts. Soon enough, there's my name again. I look up to see the familiar box on the counter. "Where's the bread?" "OH, RIGHT!" self-admonishes the new guy. I'm embarrassed for being that person again, but I also really want the bread. Just then, it's the head cook! She's bent over, one arm flailing through the maw. "Good ta see ya, Helen!" I grab my box and my bread, and go.