Yes, actually. Someone by the name of P. Adams. Male or female, I'm really not picky. You wouldn't happen to be a P. Adams, would you? Sorry if you are, but it's your time to go and I've got a stack of pancakes with my name written all over them waiting for me at this greasy diner downtown.
George flashed the woman a smile in return. "Not really," she answered. "You know, taking in the sights. Doing a bit of people watching." She glanced around again, taking note of the usual suspects and trying to narrow down her focus.
One of these days, I'm going to get to Reap a reunion. Then everyone will have name tags on that say "Hi, my name is" and I might make it home in time for the late show. She flinched a bit as the kid on the skateboard hit a rock and did a flip, landing soundly on his back. Getting up, he sniffled miserably as he snatched up his board and ran off to nurse his wounds.
Of course, knowing my luck, it'll be a reunion of Bob Smiths from all over the world, crammed into one little room.
She looked back to the other woman. As the alarm on her watch beeped, signifying it was now eleven-thirty, she extended her hand to the stranger. "I'm Millie," she introduced herself. "Millie Hagan. Kinda new here. Just trying to get a feel for the place."