Overheard

I sit in the waiting area. Anxious. Largely making eye-contact with the floor. Eavesdropping on a man talking to, I assume, his daughter. "How are your classes going?" Going by his age, and the phrasing, I assume college. She talks. The corners of his mouth periodically twitch but he never actually smiles.

He speaks largely in the low monotone reserved for trying to politely, discreetly, carry on a phone conversation while in the company of strangers in a nearly silent room. I can't tell if it's actual politeness or depressions flat affect. Given where we are, that seems just as likely. I have to consciously put effort into incorporating those highs and lows (though, admittedly, that isn't all the depression).

He says generic parent parent things. Scratches his grey stubble. Indicates that he is proud of her. I assume "her" because the word "baby" is frequently used. I feel pretty confident that it isn't a spouse or partner in general because of how he says it.  Wholly unromantic. Paternal.

He abruptly tells her that he has to go. That he'll talk to her later. Instructs her to "be good" before he hangs up. Is still sitting there around 7 minutes later. An odd, blank expression on his face.

I look around to stop staring/trying to decipher the look. It's mostly older couples which I find vaguely positive. No idea why. I guess seeing them together. Willing to wait it out. Be there for whichever needs it.

The room is still save for me and my leg. It has a tendency to declare itself a separate entity. To misbehave. Audibly. I look at Mr. Phone and the others. Wonder if their outward calm is all an act and how I can get in on it. I'm one big yawn away from dry heaving.

Doors open and close shrilly. Practically begging for the wD40. The sound sends my heart into my throat every time. Swallowing it is an unpleasant affair.

The couple nearest me have a cat. Or maybe a small dog. The woman is wearing dark jeans. The jeans are wearing white fur at the bottom. It doesn't reach very high up. I'm tempted to ask which it is. If it's hers or if she just happened to visit someone with a pet. I swallow that, too.

Her foot is tapping now. Maybe it's contagious. The husband is desperate for small talk. He's bored. Uncomfortable. Sits rigidly. Arms crossed. Keeps turning to speak to her, open mouthed, and then looking away before he says anything. This is probably her appointment.

He finally finds a topic. Expresses doubt in the whole psychological scene after a doctor walks by with a patient. She slowly closes her eyes. Doesn't quite sigh. Irritation? Disinterest? Maybe she's heard this one already.

Two minutes past my appointment time, I start to worry. Five seconds later the woman, Sly Cooper, is beckoned back. The doctor apologizes for the delay. Says that someone was supposed to bring her back there to him. Her appointment, then. Ten points to Ravendor.

Mrs. Raccoon's doctor leads her back in his motorized wheelchair. I wonder how he got into the building because I didn't see a ramp on the way in. This realization bothers me. I worry that he has to go all the way around the building just to get in.

For minutes past my appointment, I contemplate fleeing the scene. Decide that The Doctor must have remembered me from last year. And disliked me. I picture her in her office watching the minutes slowly tick by. Silently praying that I'd fuck off.

Eight minutes past, I decide that the receptionist made a mistake. That I'd remembered correctly when I tried to sit in the other waiting room. That she'd come out from that end, saw no one, and went back in her office. I'm about to pack my things and leave when The Doctor comes out with an extremely grateful couple. They each thank her at least twice before leaving. She waves me over. I take a deep breath. Regret not fleeing when I had the chance.