I know you well. It’s true that I always had a little trouble with your name, but I do know your name, just I don’t know at this moment. 
We’re at a big party and have kissed hello. We’ve had a delightful conversation about how we are the last two people on the face of the earth who don’t kiss on both cheeks.
You are so charming. You had been to my house for dinner and I read your last book. If only I could have remember your name. It’s inexcusable that I don’t. It’s something like Roger. Only it’s not. Rodrigo? That’s not in either. Your last name: three syllables, starts with a c. Starts with a g? I am losing my mind.
But a miracle occurs:
The host is about to toast the guest of honour. Thank God. I can escape to the bar. I will spent the rest of the night scrolling through the alphabets in an attempt to come up with your name… 
Have we met? I think we’ve met, but I can’t be sure.
We’re introduced, but I didn’t catch your name as it’s too noisy at this party. I’m going to assume that we know each other and I am not going to say, “Nice to meet you.” If I say so, I know what will happen. You will say, “We have met.” You will say it in a sort of aggressive, irritable tone, and you won’t even tell me your name so I can recover in the same way. Only I’ll have a big smile on my face and won’t look desperate. But what I’ll be thinking is,
Please throw me your name. Please, please, please. Give me a hint.
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