Waiting to Inhale
Today in the doctor's office, there's one girl sitting in the waiting room. Blond, pretty enough that I quickly think so, even though she's blond. I go up to the window and leave my John Hancock on the sign-in sheet, unhappy with the restrained sound of my own voice. When I turn around, I scope all the open benches and realize that though she won't say so, the girl is afraid I'll take a seat close to the window, and thus, close to her.
I move away to the far corner of the room and tell the girl that I don't mean to be unsociable, but I don't want to get her sick. She turns from worry to - what? Gratitude, I think. She says she really appreciates that, since she's only here ferrying someone (read as: she's not sick, and wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for some other sick person), and she's so simply pretty about it that I nod and leave her be. If I had a hat, I'd give it the cowboy tip and spur my horse on its way. "Ma'am."
But I don't have a hat or even an umbrella to fuss with, so I try to read the book I brought with me. The urge to cough seemingly every other page is maddening. I catch an article teaser on a magazine to my right and leaf through it. The article's pretty much what I figured it would be - same old advice, different month - but before I can flip through the rest, the thought comes: "I wonder how many germs these magazines collect? I mean, how many people handle them and cough on them like me?" Down it goes, placed just so, like I never touched it. Surely the gods were looking somewhere else for a moment and they won't notice.
I'm called up to pay, though at this point I couldn't care less about cost if it means I'll breathe freely again someday soon. And they warn me that they're checking on a room for me, so I don't bother to sit back down. I linger toward the far end, though, and pause next to a common waiting room child's toy. I note the thick wires, each coated with a plastic coating of a different color than the others. Their ends are set in wood, and their bodies are twisted around the others, but with space in between them. The wires have wooden beads that are square or circular in shape gathered at their ends, and I try to trace where the beads could be moved with my eyes. It strikes me that this could be some kind of demented model of a solar system, showing why it's a bad idea for orbits to touch, or why orbits shouldn't spiral out and around like roller coaster track. Showing how strange and fucked up the universe can really be, while still providing entertainment. Or maybe it's showing the orbits of people rather than things. "Learn how to master this game, children, and adulthood will be a breeze."
I shake my head just a little (just enough that the girl will start to worry if she's watching) and wobble slightly in my boots. These are not good thoughts to be having. Why, exactly, I don't know, but they feel a little out of control and I have to wonder what kind of person I am to have them. I would blame the sickness, but let's be honest - this is the kind of association I expect from myself. Pensive and a little upsetting. No time to dwell on it - the room is ready.
I move away to the far corner of the room and tell the girl that I don't mean to be unsociable, but I don't want to get her sick. She turns from worry to - what? Gratitude, I think. She says she really appreciates that, since she's only here ferrying someone (read as: she's not sick, and wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for some other sick person), and she's so simply pretty about it that I nod and leave her be. If I had a hat, I'd give it the cowboy tip and spur my horse on its way. "Ma'am."
But I don't have a hat or even an umbrella to fuss with, so I try to read the book I brought with me. The urge to cough seemingly every other page is maddening. I catch an article teaser on a magazine to my right and leaf through it. The article's pretty much what I figured it would be - same old advice, different month - but before I can flip through the rest, the thought comes: "I wonder how many germs these magazines collect? I mean, how many people handle them and cough on them like me?" Down it goes, placed just so, like I never touched it. Surely the gods were looking somewhere else for a moment and they won't notice.
I'm called up to pay, though at this point I couldn't care less about cost if it means I'll breathe freely again someday soon. And they warn me that they're checking on a room for me, so I don't bother to sit back down. I linger toward the far end, though, and pause next to a common waiting room child's toy. I note the thick wires, each coated with a plastic coating of a different color than the others. Their ends are set in wood, and their bodies are twisted around the others, but with space in between them. The wires have wooden beads that are square or circular in shape gathered at their ends, and I try to trace where the beads could be moved with my eyes. It strikes me that this could be some kind of demented model of a solar system, showing why it's a bad idea for orbits to touch, or why orbits shouldn't spiral out and around like roller coaster track. Showing how strange and fucked up the universe can really be, while still providing entertainment. Or maybe it's showing the orbits of people rather than things. "Learn how to master this game, children, and adulthood will be a breeze."
I shake my head just a little (just enough that the girl will start to worry if she's watching) and wobble slightly in my boots. These are not good thoughts to be having. Why, exactly, I don't know, but they feel a little out of control and I have to wonder what kind of person I am to have them. I would blame the sickness, but let's be honest - this is the kind of association I expect from myself. Pensive and a little upsetting. No time to dwell on it - the room is ready.