She was the wife of a fire chief, she was introduced to me as Mrs. McQuayle. I don’t remember the occasion, but we were seated next to each other at some banquet dinner in Westhampton Beach. We didn’t have much in common, and conversation was a bit strained. At some point, recounting a story, I said, “—and I suddenly had a feeling of déjà vu.” “Excuse me,” she said, smiling, I don’t think I know that expression.” “Déjà vu,” I repeated, “like you’ve seen it before.” The smile bcame a frown. “What do you mean?” I tried to explain further: “Didn’t you ever have the feeling, for instance when you walk into a strange room, or turn the corner in a strange town, didn’t you ever have the feeling you’d been there before, that it felt somehow familiar, even though you know for certain you’ve never experienced it? Well, that’s déjà vu.” She blinked at me, as if trying to recall. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said.