Time Will Tell

It’s eight o’clock in the morning. The sun has been up for hours. I have not. Although I am caffeine deprived, I feel jittery. The waiting room is packed and smells of burned coffee, floral cologne and hand sanitizer. A dusty fake ficus flanks rows of thread stretched chairs. Under a large window, a couching toddler holds a Hot Wheels car in one hand and winds bright beads around a wood maze with the other. The only empty seat is between a table strewn with outdated magazines and a middle aged woman picking at a styrofoam cup. I weave in and out of nervous chatter among strangers about their bodily functions and the weather. I reluctantly sit, sensing someone else’s warm bottom has recently vacated the chair. I cringe. I can’t help but wonder what news my rear-end’s predecessor is hearing behind closed doors.

chance of rain
she stares at the clouds
on a tissue box