"Are you on good terms with him?"

Lady, and I don't mean lady in the patronizing, 21st century sense but in the sense that you aren't just a female somebody, but a distinct woman of presence, I'm sorry. I am sorry you bore your soul to the world from a place as unsympathetic and stagnant as the DMV. I am sorry to be an incidental eavesdropper onto your troubles, troubles that you may or may not deserve. I don't even know you. But I felt bad.

She asked you a question. A personal one. You stuttered, and then you were confident in your answer. At least, the romantic in me remembers you stuttering.

There were lines of people. Lines of stories and troubles and hopes and reminders of both the day's banality and life's vivacity. Oh, what a place.