Your mother raised you better than to listen in on other people’s conversations. What kind of a gentleman does that? You purposefully focus on devouring the remains of your Livermush Double-Stack, making loud “mmmmm” sounds to drown out the increasingly frantic conversation between the two men.
Even so, polite as you are, you cannot help but overhear a few scattered phrases: “Memphis” and “Graceland” and even, strangely, “secret.” What could it all mean?
It would be rude to even guess!
And yet, as you are crumpling up your trash to put in the bin, several minutes after the men have departed, you happen to glance down at their abandoned table to see a scrap of paper left in one of the seats. You cannot resist picking it up; a phone number is hastily scribbled on it, along with a single name: “Jacques.”
Absentmindedly you stuff the paper into your pocket.
A mile or two down the road, and you have already forgotten the strange encounter.