I smiled, wished him a good afternoon and turned to go on my way. His booming voice stopped me again.
“No, wait a minute.” He started snapping his fingers. “Your name is... oh, let me think...”
I turned around to see him looking up at the ceiling, a half smile on his face. Then he looked back at me.
“Jackie, right？ You’ve got a long blonde ponytail, don’t you？”
I was dumb founded.
“Yes.” I said, peeking at my chest to make sure I’d taken off my name tag. (I had.) I reached back and touched the tightly braided2 bun on the back of my head. Then I studied his face, looking for something that might trigger my memory. His eyes were cool, blue and shiny. Curly salt-and-pepper hair framed his face.
“I’m sorry. I don’t work on the fourth floor, and I just don’t remember you.”
“That’s all right, Jackie. I’m just glad I got to see you again. You came into my room about three weeks ago. My heart stopped dead on me and you put those paddles3 on my chest. I remember