Drinking and writing in the coffee shop, I briefly emerged from my fog of words. Conversational strands pulled me in.
“We’re losing ’em all,” a customer said to the barista, Preston.
“Yes,” Preston agreed.
“There’s only one Beatle left, isn’t there?”
I flipped the Beatles’ names through my mind: Paul, John, George, Ringo.
“Yep. No, two,” Preston said.
“Yeah, that’s right, Ringo and George.”
Preston answered, “No, George and John.”
“That’s right,” the customer agreed, walking off.
Eyebrows rising, I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to call out a correction.
“No, wait,” Preston shouted. “John and Paul. No, Ringo and John. I mean. Paul! Ringo and Pau!”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Thank dog they came through with the right names.
I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t.
Michael Seidel, writer 
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