I ordered a pretzel at a movie theater snack bar a couple of days ago. The snack bar guy was a tall, late-teens kid, with dark hair, and one growth spurt too big for the black vest of his uniform.
After I had paid him, he asked me a strange question.
“A name for your pretzel?”
“Can I have a name for your pretzel?”
“I don’t usually name things I’m about to eat. I get emotionally attached and can’t bring myself to eat them.”
It took him a second. To be honest, it took me a second too.
“I mean your name, so they can call you when your pretzel is ready.”
The only witness was some other uniformed snack jockey, and he was grinning.
The movie I was about to see was Boyhood, which was good — very good — but I don’t think it had any dialogue as good as that.