I am sitting at a table with coworkers from the newspaper, enjoying pleasant banter, when I spot the figure moving rapidly towards us and then an all-too-familiar voice cries, "Is that the brat?!" before I am taken in a perfume-laden embrace from behind and she is upon us. My 78-year-old friend is wearing a green felt fedora and matching ensemble. Her makeup is very "done". I receive a kiss on the cheek and can feel the lipstick implanting itself in my pores and as I'm recovering she has grabbed hold of my friend to the left and is kissing his head. She is kissing his head. As I struggle to overcome my fight or flight instinct and regain composure, introductions are made, for despite the extraordinarily familiar behavior (the kisses, liberal use of the words "darling" and "sweeite," the question, "Would it be alright if I sat here and rubbed legs with you?"), she is unknown to all at the table except for me. The strange thing is that this escapade occurs at all. This isn't how I pictured it when I pictured my life, my twenties, rambling down bustling urban streets. The stranger thing is that it doesn't jostle me too much. It is another day in this small town.