They sent me to the fourth floor of the old
Laperal building; I remember how my heels
clicked when I climbed the stairs. Stenciled
numbers above doors were nondescript:
some were faded, some completely merged
with the background. It turned out the woman
behind the office door I opened was both clerk
and scribe. She looked up from the remains
of her lunch before rummaging in a dented
metal cabinet for a form and a ballpen— BIC,
orange plastic carriage, blue ink— and a sheet
of typewritten questions: Take your time,
come back when you have finished your marital
history. I paid and watched as she filled out
a receipt by hand then handed me the carbon
copy. She pointed out a blank and there I signed
my name. A nearly dry stamp pad lay open
on one side of the desk; she took my right thumb
and rolled it on its surface; then, pressing, I
affixed my mark in a box on the final page.