On a lonely day, I look out on the freeway. I can fantisize 'bout the car I drive.
The curtain rises on an examination room.
The bottom halves of the walls are a dark chocolate colour, and the upper halves are an egg-shell-flirting-with-cream; a colour choice likely intended to be warm and soothing. The typical fixings of a doctor's office are there -- an examination table, a desk and computer, drawers, a counter, a sink. They are all immaculately clean.
PERCY sits in an obviously uncomfortable chair at the back of the room, her right foot bobbing in what amounts to little more than a nervous tic. She's attempting to distract herself with a large paperback book that looks awkward in her small hands, but appears to be failing. Each small sound draws her attention, and it's doubtful she's read one senence in the entire time she's been here.
The door opens, and she looks up hopefully. The DOCTOR enters. Crossing the room towards the desk where he types something in to the computer, he makes small chat. Inconsequential 'hello, how are you' sort of things are said, and PERCY answers both politely and with the same degree of automation.
PERCY'S foot is bobbing faster now.
DOCTOR: It's been six months, huh?
PERCY: (Instantaneously.) Six months and a day.
The DOCTOR continues to type. He scans his screen, mouth moving silently while he nods to himself. PERCY'S biting her lip now, though one would have to be close to see it.
DOCTOR: Your last blood tests came back fine. Medication levels are good, you've been healthy. No seizures.
He looks to PERCY, and smiles.
DOCTOR: I see no reason why you shouldn't be allowed to drive.
PERCY'S foot finally stops. An overwhelmed expression gives way to joy. There is surprise there, and a smile breaks out that rivals summer sunshine for brightness. The audience has been witness to a victory, and if there was nothing but PERCY'S face at this moment to judge by, they would still know it.
PERCY: (A murmur, ringing with triumph.) Thank you.
The curtain falls.
End scene.