Waiting Room, 10:47 a.m.
Tues.
If the letter B is displayed above your number, please approach window four.
I should have eaten something.
Three more and it's me, unless they split the line again.
She said it would take forty minutes; it has taken seventy-two.
Don't cry in here, not in here.
The ficus is plastic and I respect it for not pretending otherwise.
My father used to bring a book; I brought a phone and I hate myself a little.
He keeps looking at me and I cannot tell if it's the hat.
If they call my name wrong again I will answer to it anyway.
There is a smell I can't place and I don't want to place it.
The child across from me is better behaved than I am.
I forgot which form is the yellow one.
The magazine is from 2019 and I am still going to read the horoscope.
I'm practicing what I'll say when they call me; I keep losing the first word.
My feet are cold and I am pretending they are not.
Whatever they tell me, I will nod, and I will figure it out in the parking lot.
She took her coat off, so the wait must be longer than I thought.
I am not going to look at the clock for five minutes, starting now.
We are all here for something and none of us will ask.