“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“Assumed what?”
“That you’d remember.”
My irritation turned into unease.
“Remember you from where?”
A child behind us complained about the wait.
The driver glanced toward the line.
“Give me a minute.”
He served the remaining children while Ellie and I stepped aside.
I considered leaving.
But I couldn’t go home knowing this stranger knew my name and remembered what ice cream I’d eaten as a child.
When the last child walked away, he closed the service window halfway.
“I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“How long?”
He hesitated.
“More than 30 years.”
I searched his face.
Nothing.
“Where did you know me from?”
“You lived over on Brookside when you were little, didn’t you?”
My chest tightened.
I had.
My family moved away when I was 11.
“How do you know that?”
He smiled faintly.
“You used to wait at the curb every Friday afternoon.”
