19 hours in the O.O.P.S. recertification queue, you were B-4027, I was B-4028 (O.O.P.S. Regional Office)

I don't know your name. I know your ticket number, your shoe size (10, because we both took our shoes off around hour six), your opinion on every show currently streaming on Flickerbox, your mother's brisket recipe, and the exact story of how your ex ruined your cousin's wedding by bringing an unlicensed Child Chucker to the reception as a "party favor." But not your name.

We were in the Registrar annex on Drimsby Road. You sat down next to me at 7:40 AM. By 10 you'd offered me half your sandwich. By noon we'd mapped out our ideal lives on the back of a compliance form. By 4 PM you were asleep on my shoulder and I didn't move for an hour and twelve minutes because I didn't want to wake you up.

They called B-4027 at 2:15 AM. You stood up, said "well that was the best worst day of my life," and walked through the door. I didn't follow you because my number hadn't been called and I have a deeply ingrained respect for queuing systems.

They called B-4028 six minutes later. You were already gone.

I still have the compliance form. I've been carrying it in my wallet like a lunatic.