It’s not supposed to end this way. Sitting in a crowded waiting area with other couples, some with babies and paternity proof, others simply old people, waiting for our weirdly complex number to be called. It all started so beautifully—a glance across a crowded bar, a kiss under the moonlight. And now it ends so mundanely, a series of forms to sign, a friendly but disinterested caseworker, a fine to pay.
We hear our number, and go to the window. Not holding hands. Barely looking at each other. Once our fingers were perpetually entwined, our eyes always seeking out the other’s. Somewhere along the way, the searching became vigilance, the hand-holding habitual. Now even that was gone—part of another lifetime.
The deputy points us toward an office, where a kind older woman behind a beaten-up desk goes through our documents making sure everything is filled out as it should be. All is in order, as I knew it would be. That’s the Virgo in me—never met a form I didn’t fill out perfectly. She seems surprised at our friendliness. No time for bitterness, not anymore. We burned through our allotment before we ever got here. A few stamps, a few signatures, and it’s done. Time to pay up, downstairs.
We stand in line to pay, our last joint bill. Then we go to lunch and split the tab, two strangers again.
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