He Knew All Four of Our Names

Four of us, same corner booth we have occupied every Friday for a decade: me, Dev, Christina, and Paul. We know the regulars. We know the staff. We have never known this man.

Sixties, neat grey coat, dry-looking hands. He stopped at our booth on his way to the door — we assumed he would ask directions — and instead he greeted us. Individually. 'Dev. Christina. Paul.' A nod for each, correct on the first attempt, in the order we were seated. Then he looked at me and said, 'And Ember.'

Nobody has called me Ember since 2011. It was my father's private name for me — a joke about my red hair from babyhood — and he died that year. It is not on any document or profile. My friends at that table did not know it; I watched them not know it in real time, watched them read my face and get frightened by whatever was on it.

'Thank you for Tuesday,' the man said to all of us, pleasantly, as if settling a debt. 'It matters more than it looked.' And he left. Through the window we watched him cross the car park and — I want to be exact — we lost him behind the recycling bins, which are two metres of bins in an open lot, and he did not emerge from either side. Paul went out. Nothing.