Progression

As far as lobbies go, there are probably less inviting ones in this universe. Specifically, the DMV and prisons come to mind. But Jeff needed to be here in this beige box to get some closure. As he queued up behind the tired, poor, huddled masses of people with their boxes and papers and envelopes, he took note of the ancient signage adorning the even more ancient walls, the unmatched government floor tiles, the flickering fluorescence, and the disappointing number of people who would be helped before him.

Though technically in line, he still was not technically fully in the lobby, because the line extended to the door. He claimed his spot in the doorway, leaning heavily to prop the door open and taking care to not block the egress of those who came before him. He instinctively took out his phone to pass the time and was immediately bored by it. He slipped it back in his pocket and took note of the people in line.

This is going to take forever, he thought.

"Next in line, please!"

Jeff gave his shoulder a rest as each member of the line in turn moved two and a half steps forward. The door clamped shut behind him.

A kid in his late teens approached the counter. Jeff assessed that the kid most likely was shipping something he sold  online: a gaming console, or a laptop, or some other piece of high-end electronics that he traded for money to buy textbooks, or weed, or ramen. The kid had clearly put in very little effort, because the open, unsealed, unlabeled box was overflowing with packing materials. No doubt he passed a half dozen corner drug stores with abundant supplies of packing tape on his way here, but chose to inconvenience everyone behind him. He tried to appeal to the postal clerk for free tape but in defeat was forced to purchase a roll.

Idiot.

Several people in line were visibly agitated at the lack of common courtesy demonstrated by this fellow human. Once the box was sealed it was weighed, and once it was weighed, there was a battery of questions about hazardous contents. The myriad shipping options prompted the kid to stop and evaluate how valuable he believed the contents of this package truly were. Once the label was affixed and money exchanged, he went along on his merry, oblivious way, eliciting copious amounts of side-eye from the spectators. All told the entire exchange lasted less than 3 minutes, but to everyone in line it was an eternity.

"Next!"

The line shifted, and the happy couple approached the counter. 

The young woman took her hand out of her beau’s back pocket and began to rifle through her bag as she very formally introduced herself as Carol Ann Whittier and her boyfriend as Craig Rasmussen. She gleefully informed the clerk that they would be applying for passports today. Most likely to backpack from some pristine old-world city on the Rhine or the Thames or the Tiber to some other pristine old-world city on the Seine, or the Danube, or the Vistula. It's not entirely clear if that postal clerk was even capable of an emotion like joy, but there was a definite sparkle in her eye when those five ominous words fell from her mouth and landed like boxing gloves to the jaws of the happy couple.

"Do you have an appointment?"

In an instant three basic facts became clear to anyone paying attention:

An appointment is required to apply for a passport.

The grievous error of forgetting to make said appointment had been committed…

…by Craig Rasmussen.

After a brief and fruitless campaign to persuade the postal clerk to see them anyway, the couple quickly retreated from the lobby. (Shortly thereafter, an argument of epic proportions would break out in a post office parking lot and ultimately end 5 hours later in a living room four miles away. That day would go down in infamy as the day that Carol Ann Whittier ditched that deadbeat Craig Rasmussen. It was also be remembered as the day Craig Rasmussen won his freedom from that psycho Carol Ann Whittier.)

"Next in line."

As the zombified father of three gathered his children and moved to take his place at the counter, Jeff caught a glimpse of the new line leader.

Where the hell did she come from?

The new object of his attention appeared to be about his age. She had a similar hurried, apathetic style as him. Her flip flops, pajama pants, and tank top almost mirrored his sandals, gym shorts, and dirty t-shirt. He glimpsed her profile as she turned to track one of the feral kids currently ransacking a display of shipping supplies, and thought she was stunning. She wore thick rimmed glasses, giving off a nostalgic Lisa Loeb vibe that a lot of guys would willfully fail to notice, but he thought it was endearing. Jeff always swore up and down that he didn’t have a type…but this was in fact Jeff’s type.

And in that moment he experienced an anxiety that he hadn't felt in exactly 2 years and 11 months.

So many questions immediately flooded his thoughts. What do I do now? effectively sums them all up. He wondered if it was acceptable to approach a stranger in a post office. Do people even still do that anymore? He wondered if there was some app that could help him break the ice. Oh God, I’ve been off the market for almost three years and don’t even know what apps people use anymore! Should he use a pickup line? I don’t know any lines! Should he just say hi? Boring! Would she feel threatened by a stranger making an unsolicited advance? What if she knows krav maga and pummels me? 

Not all of the questions were rational.

"Next!"

Dad had wrapped up his transaction and was in the process of moving his three children toward the exit. Lisa Loeb stepped into the spotlight, and now Jeff was on the clock. He needed a strategy, but also some information. The large elderly woman in front of him was blocking his line of sight so he leaned slightly to the left, but he still couldn't see. He shifted his weight and leaned a little further trying to catch a glimpse of that left ring finger. He tilted a few more degrees, and if he had listed any further he would have needed a kickstand. He failed to notice a cardboard display next to him and, of course, accidentally nudged it causing it to crash to the floor.

He tidied up his mess as quickly as possible and then turned back to his recon mission, craning his neck to see her hand, which was now hidden from sight. He glanced up and met her eyes, causing him to awkwardly jolt his entire body in a violent race to break eye contact.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT! SHE DEFINITELY THINKS I WAS CHECKING OUT HER ASS!

Well, there was nothing left to do at that point but mail his package and then curl up and die. Twenty-seven aggravating heartbeats later, Lisa Loeb told the clerk thank you and turned to leave. As she passed by Jeff, she offered him a noncommittal half-smile that conveyed absolutely nothing and then went on living her life.

“Next, please.”

Jeff assumed his position as the first and only person in line. The woman in front of him bought stamps while he replayed the previous two minutes in his head. As she waffled between 1980s nostalgia stamps and the 150 Years of Postcards collection, Jeff overanalyzed every moment of his tragic non-interaction with a pretty girl. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't notice that the stamp collector had moved on.

"Neeeeeext," the clerk snapped, which brought him back to the lobby. He plopped his package on the counter, and instinctively reached for his phone to check the time.

"Anything fragile, perishable, liquid, flammable?" she asked.

"No, nothing like that," he responded. "Just some clothes and books and stuff."

"Do you need insurance?" she asked.

"No,” he chuckled. “This is all of my ex's crap. I don't even care if it gets there." He added, "Just do whatever's cheapest."

This elicited a noticeable smirk from the clerk. "Ok, you're all set. Your tracking number is on the receipt," she said, handing him the paper. He promptly tossed it into the trash bin next to the counter.

"Thanks," he said, and turned toward the door. "Have a good one."

Well, that's done, he thought. Somehow the empty lobby didn't seem so bleak anymore, and he turned his thoughts toward the rest of his day. After double-checking that the lobby was empty, he danced up to the door and tapped the automated handicap button with his hip. He did a half turn and shimmied out into the daylight where he stopped dead in his tracks.

There leaning against the building was the girl, aimlessly scrolling on her phone. She looked up just long enough to notice him noticing her, and awkwardly fumbled her phone trying to shove it into her non-existent pants pocket. She gave him another half-smile and said, “Hey.”

He countered with an equally revealing, “Hey.”

After an awkward silence that lasted anywhere from a second to an eternity, Jeff mustered a question. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Kind of,” she responded. And then, in a moment of forced confidence, “Were you staring at my ass in there?”

Shit!

She let him dangle momentarily while his thoughts flailed, attempting to generate any response in order to recover. And then she rescued him. “I’m just messing with you,” she said. “I know you were. What’s your name?”

“Jeff”

“Hi, Jeff, I’m Lisa.”