Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
His eyes darted from the clasped hands in his lap to the clock in perfect synchronization with the timepiece nailed to the wall above. He was a helpless observer to his own thoughts, much like a tourist at the mouth of Penn Station - wide eyed, confused, and small. He felt so small in that plastic coral chair. The color reminded him of Florida. It reminded him of the little old ladies, reclining in their chaise lounges around the pools of their little retirement communities; their frail, fragile fingers wrapped around their virgin bloody mary’s, the condensation from the heavy Florida heat dripping over their enameled nails - their coral enameled nails. As they chatter around the pool each word that passes their lips, each laugh that erupts from their bellies brings them closer to their death.
Waiting rooms. Waiting rooms take many ambiguous forms. The little old ladies in their chaise lounges are waiting - waiting to be called in for their appointment. They’re in a waiting room, just like his chair is bolstered to the floor of a waiting room. He hated waiting rooms. He hated the color coral.
Tick.
His eyes went from the chair to the clock.
Tick.
His eyes went from the clock to his hands. His white, trembling hands. He focused on loosening his grip, but his plea couldn’t be heard over the noise of Midtown Manhattan.
Tick.
What about her pleas? Were they heard in the rustle of the leaves, the turning up of dirt? Were they ignored, like the tourist’s inquiries toward the Empire State building? Were they neglected like the synapse fire in his brain that told the musculature in his hands to release?
Tick.
His arms began to tremble. He jumped out of the chair and began to pace in front of the vending machines, prying his fingers apart with brute force. The blood flooded back through the previously sealed off passage ways, sending a burning sensation through his fingertips. Did she burn inside? Did her unrealized pleas ferment into frustration, welling up inside her belly until it consumed her? Did she ever let that fermented poison escape? Did they let her release it, or did they force her to keep it inside as they flooded every orifice of her with their evil.
Tick.
He reminded himself to breathe. He didn’t understand why he had to keep reminding his body to live. He wondered if that meant she was dying.
Tick.
He pushed open the bathroom door and brought himself before of the mirror. He reminded himself to take a deep breath in as his eyes fixated on the drain of the sink.
Tick.
Oh great, there’s one in here too.
Tick.
He splashed water on his face, attempting to cleanse himself of his lack of self control. He mustered the courage to look into his reflection and paused. There was nothing out of the ordinary in his reflection, and this disturbed him. His soul was as turbulent as a plane flying through the midst of a hurricane, his consciousness as noisy and gridlocked as Broadway during rush hour, yet his face was a frozen lake, still, yet impenetrable. His face was as still as hers was when he came upon her - unmoving. The only difference was that in his eyes he saw turmoil… and in hers he saw emptiness. While her body shook her face remained perfectly still.
Tick.
He hit the button to the hand dryer with uneccesary force and he held his dripping hands under the hot air. He watched as the excess moisture on his hands was pulled down by gravity and formed into a small droplet at the base of his palm. The droplet got heavier and heavier, and just as it was about to depart he wiped his hands on his shirt and pushed the door out of the bathroom. He couldn’t bear to watch another thing fall tonight.
Tick.
He sat back down in his coral chair and glanced back up at the clock. Despite the noise of his inner city, the clock clearly resonated above it all.
Tick.
The subtle thump of brisk footfalls on the other side of the paneled doors overtook his consciousness. The doors flew outward and the woman’s white keds approached his post. He glanced up at the woman’s face, which reminded him of the face of a mountain. Strong, hard, and weathered by the elements of her life. The woman spoke, but all he heard was the sound of shattered glass. The virgin bloody mary slipped through the coral enameled fingernails and clashed with the concrete that surrounded the community pool. The frail fingers clutched the chest as the woman left the waiting room. The old woman had been called in for her appointment. Her time in the waiting room was up. His time in the waiting room was up.
They had taken her from him. She was gone. Midtown Manhattan fell quiet.
Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe in. God damn it.
