Marie entered the town hall, her footsteps echoing on the cold marble floor. She took a ticket from the machine—number 42—and sat down. Around her, the white walls were adorned with severe portraits of former mayors. The service counters, aligned like sentinels, displayed ticket numbers in a chaotic, unpredictable order.
In front of her, one counter bore the sign "Counter 7 – Absolute Priority," its digital screen blinking endlessly: "Please wait." But no clerk sat behind it, and no number was ever called. A man, who had clearly been there longer than she had, stared fixedly at the empty counter, motionless, as if he had been waiting for hours—maybe even days.
Marie approached an employee, her curiosity burning.
— Excuse me, why is 78 after 35? she asked, gripping her ticket.
— It’s the standard procedure, the employee replied, eyes locked on his screen. Your number will come up in due time.
— But when exactly? According to what logic? Marie insisted.
— Logic is not necessary here, the employee concluded flatly.
Hours passed, the sun set, and one by one, the employees disappeared behind doors marked "Private." Marie remained, number 42 never called. The man watching Counter 7 hadn’t moved.
She stood up and went to the machine, hoping to get a new ticket and somehow speed up the process. The machine beeped cheerfully as it printed out number 91.
Marie sighed and looked up. Counter 7 was still blinking in the void: "Please wait."
The man beside her turned and, in a weary whisper, simply said:
— They’ll call us eventually. Someday.
Marie burst into laughter—nervous, uncontrollable. The hall grew darker. Her laughter echoed off the marble walls, swallowed by the creeping silence.
Véro Infini
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