Two years on, I yet meet people, I haven’t encountered from the time I went from being us to I. At Shiro, only recently, I felt a tap. Uncertain, and yet unduly familiar. “We are still waiting to come for deener,” he chuckles. Do I know you, I muse, even as my eyes narrow in that standard operating procedure that reads, get out of my face? And just then, that misplaced familiarity strikes a chord. The husband’s friend from back home — Ah! Misdirected sarcasm is met with a moment of mortification as I update him of our separation, and the finality of my tone dispels postmortem.