Waiting Room

I walk in.

Dreary.

Is it dreary?

There’s a woman licking her fingers to turn pages in a borrowed magazine.

How many people have licked those pages?

She has horn-rimmed glasses and dark, messy hair.

Long nails, too.

There’s a younger woman with a child. A little boy. He’s kicking the floor so as to make his shoes squeak on the tile.

The mother continues looking at her phone. I wonder what she’s looking at? Messages from a lover? Pictures of her sister’s vacation to Puerto Rico?

There’s an older man with a hat. I think it’s a fedora. Gross.

Why’s he wearing the hat in here? Don’t you normally take hats off inside?

Maybe he doesn’t like his hair today.

How long have I been here? It can’t be too long. One minute? Two?

Why did they pick this color for the chairs?

God, I hate waiting rooms.