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You’re at a party, and everyone has a story to rattle off. Everyone but you. You listen a lot, smile, and nod to blend in, part of the furniture, unavailable for conversation. Or they’ll find out you’re the only writer without a story.

You feel the invisible bouncing ball making its way over to you. It settles on the goatee with glasses opposite you. He speaks and gets laughter. Ball bounces closer, on the maroon lipstick with green eyes. She charms. Now, it’s on the graying thirty-year-old at your elbow. More laughter.

Now, you.

“How’d you get your name?”

You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, a familiar phrase, almost applicable.

“I’m named after my mother’s father.”

A breath of silence.

“Your grandfather was named Surf_naked_123?”