Outside interest

Her face is so familiar. I've seen her somewhere before ... more than once.

Grocery store? Maybe.

Coffee shop? Perhaps. But definitely not behind the counter.

My mind searches its archives for the possibility of a uniform she's not wearing now.

It draws a blank.

I must know her from school? Certainly. She has kids my daughter's age and older. It's there that I can place her.

But I've never seen her here, at a "watering hole," two towns' length from home.

What. Is. Her. Name?

I rake the alphabet in my mind as she starts walking toward me. I can't for the life of me remember a name or any of its parts,  either first or last. I am hoping one of the letters will stick. I gulp the air hoping to remember as our gazes connect, and the distance between us disappears.

When she reaches me ... now having taken my first sip from the dark, frothy foam atop the pint glass ... she fills in all the blanks so quickly that the blanks will remain hollow for a few heartbeats until my brain wraps around each detail.

Slap-my-own-forehead: She's one of my son's school teachers. And as luck would have it, she loves my kid and feels compelled to tell me.

Why is this so weird?

For a moment, I feel as if I'm looking at the school photograph, an official record of sixth grade, complete with this year's favorite shirt and a smile that has been cultivated for strangers.

"He's always happy," she tells me, "always enthusiastic," noting that she looks forward to his arrival during the last class of the day.

I smile, not really knowing what my face looks like for this exchange. I focus on my relief, but it doesn't keep my compulsion for honesty at bay.

"Well, that's a relief," and I paint a picture of a kid who barely speaks to me when he gets home from school; bushing in the colors of envy and worry as I try and convey the abstract quality of someone else's experience of what I brazenly consider my artwork.

I can see from her expression, she now wishes she hadn't approached me. How could she have known I couldn't accept a simple compliment for what it was?

She changes the subject, for which I am infinitely grateful. However, I will still prattle on about something I will only stop to analyze later on that evening when the not-so-instant replay will keep me awake long into the night.

I can't help myself, I will fill any and all silences with the surfeit of somewhat-embarrassing lore. It's a discomfort of the nervous sort.

It's something my son, evidently, hasn't inherited.

I wish I were more like him.

So I thanked her. It's an unexpected joy to be told something nice. I am grateful to know someone thinks enough of my boy to relay a message so charming and sincere. And that he can be just as funny and sweet, as I hoped he would be.