Maybe you’re at a party, the sort thrown by a coworker at their enviably spacious apartment. You weren’t looking forward to the event to begin with, because after a day of adult-sized errands (taking your pants to the dry cleaner, finally sweeping up the glass from a cup you dropped the previous evening) you don’t have the emotional stamina for small-ish talk.
But hey, you’re here, and there’s wine, and you soon find yourself in the middle of a fascinating conversation with a new person about the ethics of documentary filmmaking. And there’s wine. So that helps.
And it’s an hour later, and you’ve talked to this new person about Louis C.K. and where to find biryani in Queens and the difficulty they had changing schools every few years and why The Fifth Element deserves a sequel and oh shit what was this person’s name again? Crap. You sort of heard their name when they introduced themselves, but it was loud and you didn’t care at the time, so was it.. Brace? No, that’s not a name. It definitely sounded like that though. And now you can never ask. Your conversation was too wonderful, too intimate and revealing; asking their name again would be a betrayal of the sacred nub of connection that was just beginning to flower. After all you’ve been through, their name, Their Name is something you should know. When they leave at the end of the night, you shout-mumble, “SUCH A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU (br-ce),” and panic-stride to the opposite end of that stupidly spacious apartment.
All this is to say, please go ahead and ask your close friends all those big, obvious, personal questions you should know the answer to but missed the chance to ask: What are you most proud of in life? What are you most afraid of? When do you feel most yourself?
On behalf of all the Br-ces of the world, they will be more than happy to tell you.