The line for the consulate

The building in which I work includes a consulate.  Two days per week, a line forms in the lobby of people waiting to be taken upstairs to conduct their consular business.

Usually when watching a crowd, I can’t help but run scripts in my mind, imagining back stories for each of the people. But this time, I can’t. Or at least, I won’t.

These folks are waiting to meet with officials who can make their dreams come true or dash them. Whatever reason they have for waiting in this line is intensely personal and I just can’t violate that privacy, even fictionally.

Most of them look at me as I walk by wearing business casual. I’m not stopped by the guard and I have a key card dangling from the loop around my neck. Clearly, I have access. Is it to the consulate? Am I maybe the person to whom they will plead their case later this pivotal morning?

I wish I could help them. I always feel the heart tugs when talking about persons caught by borders. Seems like such an artificial way to screw up lives.

One lady near the head of the line beams a smile at me that almost stops me in my heels. I think I’d like her back story.  

I hope all these people get what they came for. I’m lucky. I have a key card.