Tiny Conversation.

Location: The passport office, 10 minutes to closing. I get in there just in time to renew my super-secret spy document, and as the pleasant lady stamps (ha!) my forms, I randomly recall that a dear childhood friend used to work at the passport office. Maybe this very passport office.

ME: Hey, did a guy named [HIM] used to work here?

PASSPORT LADY: Ha ha, actually, he sits right here beside me. I’ll grab him for you.

[moments later]

HIM: Hey long time no see. How are–

ME: YOU HAVE GREY HAIR!

HIM: Oh, ha ha, yeah, I guess it’s been a while since we —

ME: AND YOU HAVE A HICKEY!

[He follows my gaze and touches the centre of his throat, where his shirt collar is almost-buttoned over a miniscule red pinpoint of a bruise.]

HIM: Oh this? This isn’t a hickey.

[He pulls his shirt collar all the way open, revealing a nectarine-sized purple passionwhopper on the side of his neck.]

HIM: THIS is a hickey.

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