Do You Know Me?

Michael “Woody” Wood

The industrial machine ground to a halt as the alarm jolted Samir from his stupor.

He grabbed the faulty soccer ball from the long assembly line and turned it over in his hands, studying each panel under the bright fluorescent light. Its weight felt uneven. A small ink cross beside the valve marked it for his inspection. He shook it and heard something rustling inside. Grabbing his knife, he cut one section free, and a note fell to the polished concrete floor.

Stunned, Samir picked it up and began to read.

I don’t know your name, but I do know you. I know how you yawn at the start of your shift as I end mine. I know how you focus on each tiny detail. And I know how you look at me, then look down when I catch you.

Samir felt his heart beat faster.

I know it’s you who sometimes cleans my desk. And I know it’s you who makes excuses for me when I’m late. What I don’t know is why you never came to speak to me.

He knew exactly who had written it. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then continued, eager to read what came next. But the final lines sent him into a panic.

I slipped this into the last ball of my shift yesterday and marked it for inspection. I thought there would always be another shift, another chance. But yesterday I learned I will leave for Delhi tomorrow to marry a man I don’t know. Before I go, I need to ask—do you know me as I know you?

Samir frowned and looked across the busy factory toward the station where she sat during that beautiful hour their shifts overlapped.

“Priya,” he whispered, lingering over each syllable. He had seen her name on her punch card.

He pictured the way she glanced at him from across the factory floor after gluing the final panel to each ball and placing it back on the conveyor belt. She tried to hide the look, but never quickly enough. That stolen glance made his day. Soon, he would have it no more.

He cursed himself.

Coward, he thought. You had months to speak to her, and you never did. Now you’ve lost your chance.

He checked the clock. Her shift began in minutes. He had to do something. He could not let her leave without trying.

Samir slammed his hand against the red button to restart the conveyor belt, then searched for a pen. He turned the note over in his hands, considering what to write.

His first impulse was to tell her not to leave. Not to marry a stranger. To stay here with him instead. He closed his eyes and imagined her fingers against his cheek, then forced himself to look back at the blank paper.

He could not ask for that. They had never even spoken.

Instead, he began to write.

I do know you. I know how you check every seam twice. I know how you rub your forehead when you’re tired. I know how you hum to yourself when the factory grows quiet.

He hesitated, then added one final line.

Come to the lunchroom at your first break. I’ll wait for you.

Samir folded the note, slipped it into his pocket, and hurried toward the factory entrance. He placed it beside Priya’s punch card, where she would be certain to see it.

Would she come, or decide the note had already gone too far? He didn’t know, but he had to try.

Back at his station, he stared at the clock’s second hand. It seemed to slip backward a little with every step forward.

Then Priya entered.

She looked straight at him. Their eyes met, and she blushed before lowering her gaze to the floor. She crossed to her station and sat, embarrassment etched across her face.

For the next fifty minutes, she worked with unnatural concentration, her hands moving from seam to seam, never once lifting her eyes toward him.

I have failed, Samir thought. I have lost her.

He dropped his head and groaned. Why had he not gone to her when he had the chance?

Then he checked the clock. Ten minutes remained—ten minutes that felt like ten hours. He had not lost her yet.

When the bell finally rang, Samir hurried from his workspace and headed for the lunchroom. His shift was over. Priya’s first break was still an hour away. He paced between the tables, trying to convince himself that she would come.

But what if she did?

She was promised to someone else. Who was he to think he was good enough for her? He lived alone and spent long days measuring soccer balls. He had no grand future. He was no Romeo.

And despite everything in the notes, he didn’t truly know her. What if they had nothing to say? What if they didn’t even like each other once they spoke?

His breath came in short bursts.

Anxious, he grabbed the television remote and searched for a distraction. A European soccer final filled the screen. The ball came from his factory—perhaps he had helped make it. For a moment, he forgot his panic and watched it soar across the pitch.

The adrenaline slowly drained from his body, leaving him exhausted. He stood transfixed by the screen.

A hand brushed his shoulder.

Samir turned. Priya stood behind him, nervousness in the deep brown eyes he knew so well. He tried to speak but managed only a small grunt.

A cheer rose from the television. They turned toward it, their arms touching. Ronaldo stood over the ball, waiting to take a free kick. A moth fluttered across his face, and he brushed it away.

Samir watched the ball resting on the grass. Only hours ago, he had held one just like it, with a folded note inside.

Then Priya laced her fingers through his, and his heart began to flutter too.

“My name is Priya,” she said.

“I know,” he replied.