So I’m looking for a pair of shoes at the Nordstrom Rack to go with a particular dress (<girly>there was a darling pair of flats: black patent leather, round toe box, small black ribbon bow adorning the toes—so cute and—for shame!—just too large for my feet…</girly>). While I’m winding through the aisles, scanning the barrage of shoes strewn across the shelves, I see a woman in the adjacent aisle. She’s wearing a large white hat.

It’s obviously not a fashionable white hat.

We both wander into the same aisle. She continues to examine the shoes. I examine her hat.

It’s shaped like a top hat and composed of a soft, felt-like material. The cylinder arising from her head is a white birthday cake sitting on top of a white tray (the brim of the hat). The cake is “frosted” with flowers of various colors, which are linked by white ribbons. The front of the hat/cake reads “Happy Birthday!” in red letters.

I smile to myself. It’s cute in a totally ostentatious way.

She looks up and sees me looking at her hat.

“That’s a great hat,” I comment. Realizing that she must be wearing this specific hat for a reason, I add, “And happy birthday.”

“Thanks!” she replies, smiling. She turns to resume her search for shoes, but suddenly turns back.

“Hey,” she says, “do you want to sign my birthday card?”

I’m caught off guard.

“Sure,” I reply, still not entirely sure what is happening.

She pulls out a card—pastel colors on the front; I don’t even read the text in the card, I’m so distracted with whatever this is that is unfolding—and hands me a pen.

Black ink. Gel ink. Probably 0.7mm.

I push aside some shoes on a nearby rack and place the card on the cool, steel surface. Only one other person, with loopy penmanship (the kind that kindergarten teachers have), has signed the card:

Happy birthday!
Barbara

I start writing:

Happy birthday!
Great hat.
Maria

I return the card and pen to her. She smiles at me again.

“Thanks!” she says. I automatically return her social smile, though I’m actually now examining her face. I notice her light hair and fair skin. She’s probably got a little bit of lipstick on her lips. Freckles. Small teeth. I don’t register the color of her eyes.

I’m still distracted.

She walks away. Many questions run through my mind….

And only now, as I type this, do I realize that I never asked her for her name.