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.
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.