Earring aid

She's one of the incoming summer wave of new baristas at my coffee shop.  She's very young, and statuesque -- and she likes my earrings, which are creamy ovals with lavender cloisonné flowers at the centres.

I tell her my mother bought me a pair years ago, and I loved them so much that they fell apart, and after my mother died, I silently asked her permission, and squirrelled her slightly different variation of the earrings away, wearing them to her memorial service for good luck.

I must have made an impression, because 90 minutes later, when I'm dropping off my coffee cup at the rear sink, she asks my name, and in return, I ask her hers.  It's Tamsin, though she has to repeat it -- I fancy I hear the narrowed vowels of a New Zealand accent, which somehow remind me of cone-shaped tubes.

"Tamsin!" I exclaim.  "That's the female form of Thomas!  I've always liked that name!"

She tells me her sister had a room-mate named Thompson.

"Tamsin and Thompson?  How confusing for your sister!"  I hastily add:  "She probably recognised you, though!" 

It's probably time for me to go.

I'm pretty sure the staff is encouraged to address regulars by name, but I feel seen all the same.  It's rather nice.