I saw you once in Las Vegas.
Your daughter was shopping and you were entertaining tourists in the air conditioned corridor outside the shoe store.
My friend wanted to meet you.
But I was raised in Los Angeles, where everyone is expected to ignore the famous. We pretend they’re ordinary. Just another shopper in the market, in line for the classic movie, getting a Cinnabon. Shopping for shoes at Manolo Blahnick.
And what would I say you had not heard a million times?
So we walked away.
I wish we hadn’t.
I read you’ve gone – that you left everyone.
And now I know what I would have said.