It’s 1990. Three years earlier, I watched the entire first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation, thought “meh” — or whatever it was we thought instead of “meh” before The Simpsons started airing — and stopped watching it. But now it’s 1990, and I’ve just started studying at Queen’s University, and I’m walking through the Gordon House common room, and the TV is on, and Locutus of Borg? Wassup with that?
Somebody else is watching it, and I sit down next to him to watch the show, which is much, much better than I’d ever expected. When it’s over, I ask him his name, and he tells me.
I return the next week and watch it again, and yes, this show has definitely improved since I saw it last. The same guy is sitting there, and again we watch it together and comment on it. When it’s over, I apologise for forgetting his name and ask him again, and he tells me.
Over the next eight months, I watch most of the fourth season of TNG, whenever I get the chance. The same guy is usually there watching it too. I keep asking him his name, and he keeps telling me, and I keep forgetting.
Finally, it’s April, the month of final exams. This is probably the last episode I’m going to see in the Gordon common room; next year, I’m moving into an apartment in Princess Towers with a new friend named Tim. When TNG is over, I turn to the guy, and again, I apologise and ask him his name.
“Mark,” he says.
“Mark,” I repeat. “Right. Mark. I’m definitely going to remember that this time.”
And I do.
Never seen him since.
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