Tonight at work, one of my favorite baristas rushed into the kitchen holding a small plate with a cookie for each of us who were cooking in the back. No one had been having a particularly rosy day, and after one of my fellow cooks said something about how crummy her day had been, this particular barista disappeared to the front and came back bearing cookies to help brighten our moods. After putting the plate down on a counter, she looked at me and after considering for a just a moment assured me, “It’s the weekend. You can eat one.”
The reason for this exclamation, which might seem a bit odd to most, was because I had mentioned to her once before that I like saving desserts for weekends. It makes them more special that way. The reason that simple reassurance meant so much to me was that it showed she had been listening. She remembered one of my eccentric preferences. What warmed me tonight was not the cookie (though it was very good). It was the feeling that someone cared enough to remember details about my life. There aren’t many things that mean more to me than simply being known.