A few weeks ago, I ran into an acquaintance I had not seen in years. We met up at a wine bar a few days after to catch up. Sara soon entered the conversation. Sara and I lived in the same freshman year dorm as did my acquaintance, but my acquaintance couldn’t distinctly remember Sara. I pulled up a photo.
“I think I remember her,” my acquaintance said. “Does she have a brother?”
“She does, but I don’t think you’d know him.” Sara is from Connecticut, her brother never went to college with us, and my acquaintance is from Virginia like me.
“I think she has a brother. He was hot.”
What a weird comment, but okay.
“Yeah, maybe.” I have met Sara’s brother multiple times, and he’s written for ATOB, but I was not prepared to publicly comment on his attractiveness nor could I conceive a situation where Sara’s brother and this acquaintance had ever met.
“I think his name is Casey,” my acquaintance added.
For readers who have not suspected, Cazey is not my legal name. Professionally and with older friends, I use my birth name. This acquaintance knew me by my birth name. I had not mentioned I blogged under a pseudonym and did not feel myself approaching that necessary juncture in our relationship—until now.
“Casey?” I repeated.
“Yeah, he’s always in her photos,” my acquaintance went on.
“Do you mean Cazey?” I tried.
“No, I think Casey. It may be spelled weird.”
Confirmed. Ding ding ding!
“I don’t know if that’s her brother,” I said. I refrained from adding, “But you say he’s hot?”
“I thought it was,” she said.
How did I say, “I think you mean me? I am Cazey. Is real life me not as hot as me in Sara’s pictures? What am I doing wrong?” Instead, I smiled and looked down at my empty wineglass.
“Interesting,” I landed on. “Well, we should definitely hang out again. I’m going to this thing next week...” Blah blah. Especially because “you think my alter ego is hot; it’s sorta like being Clark Kent/Superman.”
Maybe in a few weeks when we hang out again, I’ll drop, “I sometimes go by Cazey.”