I go have my laundry done perhaps twice a month, going to the laundry place to drop off and pick up my clothes without saying much of a word, and yet the lady behind the counter greets me by my first name when I come in through the door. Or even when not greeting me out loud, she knows what name to write on the plastic bag, and which bag to give me when I come for pickup.
How could they remember me out of the hundreds of customers that pass through these doors? Did I do something to pique their attention? Could that be a shrewd, knowing smile that I detected?
I imagine them in the back room with all the washing machines, sorting out my dirty clothes and picking at my peculiarities. Noticing my bland taste in clothing, scrutinizing any unusual stains, calculating my underwear-to-pants ratio, noting my limited inventory of bedsheets, or perhaps that I don't send my towels to be washed often enough.
Sometimes I wish I was less aware.