Down the street from my apartment is one of those tiny family-owned dry cleaners, to which I take clothes maybe once every couple of months. Every single time I’ve gone there, since the first time I brought something for cleaning, the lady who runs the place has astonished me by remembering my name.

She always checks to make sure she is spelling it correctly, as she writes it down on the little slip with the pickup date and the list of items. I get the pink copy of the slip, but I never need it, because as soon as I walk in the door to retrieve my clothes, she slinks into the back and grabs them without having to ask my name.

How she does this, especially with such an infrequent customer, is absolutely beyond me. All I can say is that she understands more about humanity than almost any customer service department of my acquaintance.