A nearly-perfect GM

This is a true story, though of course I've disguised names,
identities, occupations, and locales, for the usual reasons:

I go into a small quick-serve buffet-style restaurant-- the kind that
has tables and chairs, but also a high 'bar' running along a couple of the
walls, with tall bar stools to sit on. While I'm waiting in line to
order my food, I notice a small jacket draped onto one of the bar stools. I recognize the jacket-- it belongs to a delightful girl of 5 or 6 years
whom my wife and I have met before and spoken to briefly, and who is the
daughter of one of the managers of the restaurant. This time I'm there by
myself, though.

When I receive my food, I take the tray and sit deliberately two bar
stools away from the one with the jacket. I don't want her to feel crowded, or to be tempted to take her jacket elsewhere when she comes back.

Pretty soon, here she comes with a plate of nachos. She hops up on the
stool, adjusts herself at length, then goes about the business of
figuring out how to eat the nachos with the most efficiency and the least mess. This turns out to require both hands and a mountain of napkins.

Pretty soon, with her mouth full, while chewing, she addresses the wall
in front of her, without looking at me at all. "Hi, there," she says.
"My name is Neesha. What's yours."

Following her example, I speak to the wall also, without turning toward
her or even looking that way. "Corwen."

"How do you spell it?"

I spell it for her.

"It's very nice to meet you, Corwen."

"It's nice to meet you, too. I've met you before. I was here with my
wife and you spoke to both of us. I remember you." By this time I'm
looking right at her, but she is still addressing the wall.

She gives her head a small shake. "I don't remember you. I meet a lot
of people."

"I'll bet you do." There's a pause, and then I say, "How do you spell
*your* name?"

"Mine is spelled N-I-L-L-A. Some people think it should be pronounced
Nilla, or Neeya, but that's wrong. It really is Neesha."

Judging by her somewhat Amerindian look and her walnut skin color, I
guess: "Is it a Spanish name?"

She nods vigorously, almost losing half a mouthful of chewed-up nacho
in the process. She finally looks my way while answering around the food.
"I'm from Argentina. In Argentina we pronounce 'L-L' like you pronounce
'S-H.' That's why my name is pronounced 'Neesha.'"

Internally, I reflect on the fact that I had studied Spanish in both High School and College, and learned three different pronunciations for 'L-L.' None of them was 'S-H' though! Maybe Argentinian Spanish is a form of Welsh!?!?! However, I don't crack a smile or show any amusement at all. She undoubtedly knows more about this than I do.

We both eat for a while.

Pretty soon, I say, "I figure you for about six years old. Am I
right?"

"I'll be seven next month. And then I'll be eight the month after
that."

"Is that right? I thought people only had one birthday a year."

"Ah! You're right. I'll be eight the YEAR after that, not the month.
Silly me!"

"That sounds about right."

By this time, she has turned her full charm onto me, head on, watching
my eyes at every moment, her own flashing with sparkles of joy and
satisfaction to be having a full-fledged conversation with a 'grown-up.' Her head dips and sways constantly as she eats and/or talks. She flutters her incredibly long eyelashes and makes dimples show in her cheeks by smiling extra wide. She's quite a flirt. What's more, she watches to see which of her actions and attitudes affect me the most, and boosts those aspects to a higher level, enjoying my increased enjoyment of the wordless part of the interchange.

"I was born in Argentina and we moved here when I was three years old.
I went back once, last year. I didn't remember it from before, but I
like it there."

"Which place do you like better? There or here in the United States?"

"Here."

"How come?"

"There's more stuff."

"Stuff."

"Yeah. You know, like toys and clothes and things."

"Oh, that kind of stuff."

"Yeah."

We eat for a while.

"Your mom is the manager here, isn't she," I say. The mother is a
looker, too. It's easy to see what this kid is going to look like as she grows up. I'm definitely going to want to eat here a lot and stay in touch.

"She's one of them. There's four."

"Four managers! Wow, that's a lot."

"For different times of day and different days."

"I see."

"What do you do?"

"Me? I work with computers a lot."

"Is that fun?"

"No, it's deadly boring."

"Why."

"'Cause I have to do the same thing over and over again."

She makes a wry and sympathetic face. "That's really sad. You should
do something you like doing."

"You're right, I should."

We keep eating. She finishes before I do.

She slides down off the stool and puts her jacket on.

"Well, I've got to go mess around some. You know, play and stuff like
that. Stuff girls do. *You* wouldn't *know*. . . . It was nice meeting you, Corwen. Try to have more fun at work."

"It was delightful to meet you too, Neesha. I'll see you again some
time."

She waves goodbye without looking at me, and then goes to mess around
in whatever manner it is that girls do. I wouldn't know.