He was the go-to guy. The go-to for passports, licenses, or, if you wanted to do it all yourself, a birth certificate of a dead infant; always guaranteed to be of your vintage, give or take a few years.
So, there I was, sitting across from him, sliding documents back and forth, hunting for a name, me undecided and him a little frustrated.
‘Just pick one,’ he hissed.
But I couldn’t ‘just pick one.’ One needs time to be reborn. It isn’t something to rush as though you’re going for coffee. There are unique blends and tastes. Different textures. Different results. If it’s rushed, what happens then to the trash you’ve left behind? Is someone likely to find that single bag of rubbish, so carelessly tossed away into the back alleyway? What if the contents spill out and someone finds that one piece of evidence to blow it all out…
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