I’m naturally wary of strangers. They come and go in my life. Of course, I have more strangers than friends. Friends come and go as well, except less often.

I watch strangers when I sit in this coffee shop. They chew their food. What strange things people are. They have two eyes to see, one nose to smell, and a hole in their faces that stretches to fit this stuff called food through. And then I watch a bald man stick half a banana through that gaping hole in his face, and it opens and closes as these things called teeth mash the banana into particles so that he can swallow the food.

Not that humans are the only ones with gaping holes in their faces. From apes to zebras, they all have mouths.

I consider these people all strangers to me, even the barista who wishes me a good morning every morning with a smile. I don’t know his name. I don’t know anyone’s name except for a few dozen in my life. Not everyone can be my friend to the level of knowing their names. Once someone introduces me to someone else, I forget someone else’s name, usually out of lack of interest, not lack of attention. The stranger just doesn’t intrigue me. Then, after knowing the stranger for several days, I realized I should know the stranger’s name by now. I can’t ask them, “What was your name, by the way?” I’d already crossed that boundary. I would’ve insulted the person if I asked them too late. They’ll forever be another stranger whose name I don’t know.

On very rare occasions, say two weeks after I’d met the person, I would ask them for their name. And they wouldn’t mind telling me at all.

“My name’s Dave,” they would’ve said.

“That’s right. It totally slipped my mind.”

“That’s okay.”

But I could imagine I would’ve offended most people, even if they didn’t show it.

Strangers leave their cups on the tables without bothering to throw them away. I hate that. Everyone I know cleans up after themselves before they leave the coffee shop. I don’t associate with people who leave their cups and crumbs on the tables. Those beasts belong in cages. I’m looking at a crumb-filled table right now. Who does that?

I’ve experienced the receiving end of the name game. I swear this person who called himself Johnson (although I know it wasn’t his real name—not even his last name) never knew my name.

I’d known him for over four years and never bothered to ask him, “Hey, do you even know my name?”

We used to talk about football when we would bump into each other.

He never once said, “Hey, Joel.”

I kind of took offense to it. But maybe he did know my name, except he just never said it. I’ll never know. He moved to Texas, and he’s somewhere on my social media. I could always message him and ask him, “Did you ever know my name?” But that would’ve made things way too awkward. I thought he was a cool dude, but I still considered him a stranger.