His was huge. Bulging with thickness. So impressive I couldn’t stop staring at it. Once I spotted it, I couldn’t even speak. The first page was typical: bad picture, name, birthday, expiration date, but after that it was unlike any passport I had ever seen.
With no less than eight stamps per page, he had at least thirty – possibly forty additional pages added to make room for the visas pasted throughout. He’d spent six months in Myanmar, six in Thailand, six in countries I couldn’t even pronounce. Each page’s stamps bragged: France, Russia, China, New Zealand, Madagascar, Egypt, Pakistan, Germany, Peru, Chile, the list went on.
He laughed as I flipped through. “You are so turned on right now, aren’t you?”
And, as he drove me home, I just said, “I wish I hadn’t seen that passport.” He knew as much as I did that I’d never get him out of my head. Shit.