When his friend asked my name, I gave my colleague's. It was so inexplicable that we both fell silent for several moments. Then I corrected myself, laughed too loudly, and added an unnecessary story about a difficult workday. Adnan stood beside me holding juice. He had not noticed my embarrassment or did not know what to do. It was my first visit among his friends, people who had known one another since school.
Their sentences were full of unfamiliar names and events nobody needed to explain. When everyone laughed, I laughed too, slightly later. Adnan occasionally placed a hand on my back, convinced I was fine. I answered questions about myself as I thought they would find acceptable: less about my actual work, more about books I supposedly read, nothing about how I really preferred spending Sundays.
In the kitchen I paused before the sink and considered staying until the evening ended. Adnan followed and asked whether somebody bothered me. I said I disliked the version of myself currently in the living room. He did not immediately understand. I explained that I was trying so hard to be liked I had managed to get even my name wrong. Adnan laughed, then stopped on seeing that I needed more than a joke.
He said I did not have to win everyone over in one evening. I asked whether he really knew that, since he introduced me as someone certain to get along wonderfully with everyone. He admitted wanting a quick, easy joining of two important parts of life. He had not noticed the expectations attached to that wish. We stayed in the kitchen a few minutes, eating pieces of bread intended for dinner, and agreed I could return without an obligation to be interesting.
When we sat, I said for the first time that I did not know whom they were discussing. Someone explained. I did not laugh at one joke but did at another. I did not become the room's favorite person. One friend seemed uninterested; another man asked about work and listened to the real answer. The evening became bearable once I stopped trying to leave a perfect impression in every sentence.
On the way home Adnan kissed me beside a closed bakery. He said he liked my real name. I rested my head on his shoulder and genuinely laughed at my mistake for the first time. Later I grew to love some friends and remained merely polite with others. Adnan stopped announcing how much everyone would like me. When introducing me to someone new, he says my name and leaves the rest of the sentence to me.