Writing Practice, May 9 2015
Dallas was a boy’s name, wasn’t it? But that’s the name she heard through the glass. She had to repeat it aloud just in case, and because of policy, and because it was a pretty name, now that she’d given it half a second of thought.
“Dallas? Like the state?” She said, immediately remembering that it was a city.
Dallas, on the other side, didn’t correct her.
Dallas, on the other side, held up identification. It confirmed everything.
She thumbed at papers and wrote her name, giving Dallas permissions she herself didn’t have. She asked to see the ID closer. It was a colour she’d only seen a few times this year. These were new cards, and were not yet mandatory. She peered close at the hologram and other security details. She had no doubt of Dallas’ authenticity. But there was still a question she liked to ask.
“Dallas, are you who you say you are?”
Dallas, who up until this moment had only paid a sliver of slight attention to her–was truly paying more attention to the optimistic pastele palate adoring the walls, the nearby flick of a man’s finger against a magazine, and her own internal thoughts that mostly told her to eat something–opened her eyes and focused. She no longer saw the walls around her, thin plexiglass meant to…what? Protect her? But in this moment the little walls were gone. All colour went quiet. Colours, Dallas learned in this moment, can apparently do that.
Still, her stone cold composure kept up, and she was able to say “Yes, of course,” and hear her laugh on the other side of the plexiglass. Dallas wondered what would happen if she’d said no. If she’d told the truth.