Here's a true story. Years ago, my friend Stanley was driving through my neighborhood with his daughter Nell and granddaughter Cassandra, then a little girl. Prompted by the locale, he said something to Nell about me.
Just then, he saw me up ahead, walking along the sidewalk, as usual lost in thought. "Speak of the Devil," he said, pointing, "there he is!"
And drove on.
A mile or so down the road, Cassandra said, in a very small voice, "Pop-Pop, was that really the Devil?"
I've always been pleased with that. And I like the thought that many, many decades from now, when memory starts to fade, Cassandra might say to her great-grandchildren, "I saw the Devil once. He was this scrawny white dude. Not at all elegant the way you'd expect."