Stamped

After following me 9 miles from my home to the bridge and over the three notaries continued behind me, down into the station holding their briefcases and each others hands. They were the hired hands each about four times the average notary. They resembled a tag-team pro-wrestling trio, with
expressions possessed by all pro-wrestlers, begging you to question the authenticity of their
vocation. When I first saw them, I was sure they'd corner me with their red-rover daisy-chain, but they didn't. They just followed me down into the station, a wall of authority.

We both entered the same doctor's office of a subway car. and I saw their fountain pens. I couuld see in their eyes that within their briefcases sat the legal-sized paper, dripping with overcompensation, restless for being without signature, without stamp.

I swallowed. The three twitched around the face, necks bulging over the tight white sleeveless shirt collars . Notaries smell fear -- a natural gift for the country's anti-counterfeiters. They were a terrifying panel to sit before.

The train and I continued past my stop -- an eerie feeling I must say. The notaries were unflinching.

I stood and checked my paranoia, walked to the door and stood watching the movie theater glow of the tunnel interior from inside the speeding pill. I tactfully checked the reflection for the trio, who sat calm as stone. The very notion that they had this contingency for my most spontaneous of decisions. Their quiet confidence and and unwavering belief in the documentation they held in their briefcases and the warm sweatless hand of their partner explained everything: how those stampless may remain bobbing listlessly in our swimming mind, until, deprived of the air they breathe and need to breathe to live, swell and sink to the recesses and thicken the detritus floor.