He turned his attention back to his guide. She had dignity and poise which he instantly admired and an unplaceable familiarity that soon gained his confidence. Briefly, he pictured kissing her, imagining the texture of her lips and how they tasted. As this fantasy played, eye-contact was established and she, neither being a mind-reader or a student of male sexuality, misread his purposeful stare. Leaning into his vision she asked, "Did you ever wonder why so many people seem so different from you? That's because they are different. No matter what their strata, be it plumber, bike messenger, struggling lawyer or working slob they are united in their unerring stability. Married, single, divorced...Their stoic acceptance of their lot is something that has always eluded you." "Sounds nice." "Oh, it is... and surprisingly easy to achieve." She pans her gaze down to his feet, then back up again and, with a conspiratorial smile, adds, "You know, we've met before." With heightened intrigue, he studied her anew. But still outside of a nagging familiarity emanating from her eyes, nothing. "I was the second person you ever knew who had diabetes. The first was your great-grandmother." He was immediately taken aback for two reasons. One: He now knew without another second of thought that the woman he is talking with is Barbara Bauman. Two: To have said something like, "I was the second person you ever knew who had diabetes" is to know, with an insider's authority, exactly which little snippet of associative information was needed to summon "Barbara Bauman" from his long-term memory bank. It's one thing to remember him, but quite another to display that kind of insight. They didn't even know each other that well when they were kids. "You once said that I reminded you of David Cassidy." "You were the only guy in fourth grade with hair like that. Anyway, I'd like to show you around for a while and possibly explain a few things for you."
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