Seven years and seven days later,
the random girl who remembered my name
came back to an open mic.

"John, right?"
"Jon," I revised, and immediately chided myself for being snarky.
I was going to be cool this time.
I wasn’t going to mess this up. I wasn’t going to deny knowing her
like last time
or debate whether she meant me when she said she recognized me.

I wouldn’t tell her I’m driving tonight if she offered a drink
or that I don’t like mocha flavor if she asked me out to coffee.
I’d be confident and cool and polite and inquisitive
and through this internal monologue she waved off and left the club.

Not a problem though.

I’m sure I’ll see her again
in another seven days
and seven years.