The Waiting Room

Sitting in the waiting room, my hands knot together and then fall limp, my gaze directed towards some vague spot on the wall. A television blares out a daytime show that I’m not familiar with, and the perky, artificial voices of the hosts fall into the empty silence of the white-washed room. Magazines sit on the faux wood coffee table in front of me. A coffee maker percolates next to a water cooler along the side wall.

As I sit quietly (and mercifully alone) I think that waiting rooms must be one of the most torturous rooms ever designed by human hands. They are impersonal, dull, and stultifying. In this instance, the long minutes drag out as I await the verdict of my mechanic on the state of my car. It could be a very bad verdict, an expensive one. Perhaps that’s why waiting rooms are so horrific; always tinged with the weight of some bad news, and universally reviled as sponges for human tension and stress.

I fancy that I hear the door squeak open, just a bit, and my head twirls around to stare at it. But it’s merely the great gusts of November wind pushing into the building and making noises all around. The minutes tick by. I brought a novel with me to read, but feel compelled to shift every few seconds to keep the blood pumping to my extremities. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been seated, inexorably waiting.

When my mechanic finally does emerge into the waiting room, the verdict is a neutral one and I stand up to leave, relieved both to be gone and to have gotten away with little financial damage. As I open the door, I give the waiting room one last glance – hoping that there won’t be an occasion to visit again in the near future.

*Note on November blog posts: During the month of NaNoWriMo, I continue to aim for my 50,000 word goal in a private writing endeavor. However, some of these literary forays also spill over into my blog posts. Thoughts, criticisms, and feedback are (as always) greatly welcomed!

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