what's your number

 What's Your Number?

   I have lost all sense of time; it feels like I’ve been waiting for my turn for an eternity. But at the same time, it feels as if I only walked in. I have heard of this office from a relative. “Go there with whatever you want to get rid off. They take anything” She told me, sipping her tea and eyeing the other cousin that just walked in. So I did, I took what I needed to get rid off and went, grabbed a ticket from the receptionist and sat. That could’ve been a week ago, or maybe only half an hour ago. I honestly don’t know.

“Excuse me miss… What is your number?” Well this is odd, I thought, why would she ask me such a question? I decided to entertain her question anyways. “One seventy eight… but for some reason it says my waiting time is zero minutes.” I glanced back at the LED screen over our heads, the number seventy flashing in red. “I guess we will be here for a while…” I added a few moments later, or maybe it was an hour or so later.

“Number Sixty-Six” The receptionist called from his desk, the number sixty-six blinking above him.

A man stood up; he carried an empty gold birdcage. “Why do you need to get rid of this beautiful cage, sir?" The receptionist asked, his eyes barely leaving the screen in front of him. “None of the birds I kept in this cage lived." "Why is that?" "They lose hope, knowing they can never be as golden as the bird above."

"Number One Oh-Seven” The receptionist called from his desk. His shouting brought me back to my senses. I must have dozed off. 

A middle-aged woman stood up; she carried a car seat, it looked brand new. “Why do you need to get rid of this car seat Miss?" The receptionist asked, his eyes carefully studied the colorful seat before him. “Must I tell you?." "I’m afraid so, it’s company policy." "I don’t need it anymore. Don’t worry about the wear and tear, I barely got to use it."

“Number One Seven Six” The receptionist called from his desk. It must have been a week, if not more since I walked into this wretched place. 

A middle-aged man stood up; with a mug in hand. “Why do you need to get rid of this mug Sir?" The receptionist asked. “And is that a lipstick stain?” He added. “Yes, it is... I can’t bring myself to wash it. It was the last thing her lips touched."

“Number One Seven-Eight” The receptionist called from his desk. Finally!It's my turn.

“By the way… I meant to ask you. what are you here to dispose of?” The woman sitting next to asked, the same person that asked what is my number. “You seriously don’t know why I’m here?” “No, not really.” She answered back. “I’m here to dispose of you.”