The woman standing behind me in the checkout line at Cronig’s Market looked so familiar. I knew her from somewhere, but which somewhere? An office in Edgartown? Conroy’s pharmacy? An Aquinnah party?

Damn. Any second now she might say, “Hi, Niki, how are you?” and I would be left to respond with a gaping hole in the middle of the phrase where her name should be: “Fine, _____, and how are you?”

I was already cringing. Actually pre-cringing, because neither of us had said anything yet. But if she said hello and used my name, I’d have to use my standard opening: “Excuse me…I know you…but I don’t remember –” Oh, I hate this.

Fifteen years ago, I moved to the Island from a city where people had the decency to stay where they belonged. I saw my office colleagues at the office, my bank teller was always safely ensconced behind a bulletproof-glass window, and the grocery store cashier posed nicely beside a conveyer belt and cash register. People I met casually at parties, I rarely saw again. The city was generally too vast for people I didn’t know to repeat themselves, and I liked it that way.

Then I moved to Martha’s Vineyard.

Suddenly everyone was everywhere. The bank teller showed up at a barbecue or was seated next to me at a restaurant. The cashier was someone I also saw at choir practice. People I met casually at parties casually showed up everywhere else too. When we saw each other, we’d smile and then, while we’d know we knew each other, our mutual identities could be fuzzy around the edges (with my perspective often being the fuzzier).

After several of these awkward encounters, I finally learned to be the first to ’fess up: “Ah…er…I can’t remember your name.…Where do I know you from?” Often the listener’s face would fall in disappointment. They were not worthy of remembrance, they would think. But they are! They are! I never forget a face, but I’m often at a loss for names.

Oliver Sacks might have written about a syndrome like this. “Face-ofilia?” “Name-lost-itis?” Whatever it is, I don’t think I’m alone; it’s somewhat of an epidemic on the Island. Although we don’t know all 15,000 of our year-round neighbors, it’s likely we’ve been introduced to a good number of them and maybe even see them regularly. But without at least a semi-close relationship, how we fit into each other’s lives doesn’t always stick and we’re left scouring our activities, events, and friendships to find our common ground. After some detective work, we may be rewarded with the re-linking of our connection.

So this checkout line experience was familiar territory – I knew I knew the woman behind me but just couldn’t place her.

I finally jumped in: “I’m so sorry – Can I ask your name? I know you...I just don’t know from where.”

“Lisa,” she said.

I ran through the Lisas in my life: There’s my massage-therapist friend Lisa and my vet friend Lisa, but this was not one of those Lisas. I still couldn’t place her. I escalated my questioning to tier two: “Where have I seen you?” Her casual cutoff jeans and T-shirt, combined with a cheerful face and a competent air, made me think she was a teacher or nurse on her day off.

“Oh, I act,” she replied.

Act? The Vineyard Playhouse? I still wasn’t connecting. Bumping up to tier three: “Did I see you in something recently?” hoping she’d reveal the local play she’d just been in.

“You might have seen me on television.”

Huh? Television?

She was still smiling brightly, almost like she was enjoying a joke, when she dropped the punch line. “I’m Elisabeth Shue.”

I was now trying to sink quietly into the floor. Of course I knew Elisabeth Shue, well-known actress, from television and movies – recently from one in which she played Elisabeth Shue, playing a nurse…oh, no!

Standard beet-red face. Abject apology along with explanation of why this happens. And then I realized I’d crossed a line – taken a face from the virtual reality of a movie and dragged it into my Vineyard reality. This was a new phenomenon and bespoke trouble. Ms. Shue was gracious about my confusion, but with all the “well-known” faces on the Island during the summer months, this could be a disconcerting new trend for me.

“Now, where do I know you from?…Ah, yes, – BBC Television! – you’re Britain’s prime minister!”

“Oh, so that’s it – your wife’s name is Angelina…and you were just on the cover of People magazine.”

And with the worsening of my symptoms, I’m most worried I might eventually bump into a handsome, suave, charismatic, African American at Alley’s some day: “I know you from somewhere.…Your name begins with an O.…Now remind me, what is it you do?”