I know you, yet I don’t.

There’s a drinks stall uncle, who picked up my favourite coffee shop hot-day drink – barley. When he sees me approaching the stall, he’ll get the plastic bag at the ready, and upon my smile, will start concocting the barley drink.

He doesn’t try to make small talk; he doesn’t look at me much; he just makes his barley for me. And when it’s done, he sticks a straw into the drink, collects the money, I thank him and leave. No other words exchanged.

There’s such a distant understanding between us. It’s weird that someone who knows what my favourite drink is, doesn’t really know me at all. I was thinking if I should, on my last day of this stint, tell him that it’s my last day.