I fiddle with the yellow mug, and stare into the mud of caramel-colored remains of powdered creamer and fine-ground coffee drying at its bottom.  I recognize this story.  Because I've heard it before.  

I didn't live it, I'm certain.  

I hear the faint mixture of hope and condescension in your voice.  This is general dinner conversation, but I know it's directed at me.  

Eventually, you will tire of searching my face for recognition.  And you will anxiously begin to clear the dishes.  Your movements will betray your agitation.  And you will struggle to maintain the sing-song voice you think hides your true feelings about the stranger at your table.