He doesn't remember you. Or he does, sure, the time you laughed so hard spaghetti came out your nose and he was walking by outside and saw the whole debacle: your friends emphatic, waitress shifting her weight, and you pushing pasta through your sinuses like they were a play-doh set. He remembers that the second he sees it. But when you shake his hand, you worry that he might remember the time you saw him on the edge of a rooftop with his head in his hands, and you didn't tell him to jump but you didn't tell him not to.
