Waiting

When you're staring at your hand for so long that you see the cracks, the callouses, the scar from when you cut yourself while helping chop tomatoes. You see that you have hair on your hand, have you always had hair on your hand, you wonder to yourself, then you assure yourself that you've always had hairy knuckles. You rub one hand over the other, maybe pass over a wedding ring or maybe not, depending on how flirtatious you feel today. You feel yourself breathe, then suddenly you're aware of your tongue moving in your mouth and you can't find the comfortable position for it to rest and give up, until you can forget about it. You move your toes in your sneakers, maybe even curl them. Eventually you decide enough time has passed and you look at the clock, but in a way that's secretive, you look around the waiting room, at the painting of a flower vase, at the tropical fish tank, and finally at the clock.

“Five minutes.” You grumbled to yourself. Five minutes since you found the piece of lint in your pocket, ten minutes since you got up and drank some fountain water. If your knuckles hadn't already been cracked you would crack them again, arthritis be damned. Everyone in the room shifts uncomfortably. Children are playing with the toy that has wires and wooden blocks, knocking wood together loudly. The carpet suddenly becomes interesting, dark brown with scribbles, you try to make out what the main pattern is, but your eyes just grow tired.

Your name gets called and you awkwardly stand. The Doctor is someone you knew from elementary school who occasionally tries to be your friend outside of their job. You always turn down the offer, after all someone who knows what STDs you might potentially have is someone you don't want to have drinks with on Friday nights.

“So what is it this time?” The Doctor asks, smiling friendly. The asshole.

“Now I know this might sound a little... well off.” Your voice is low. “But I think I was visited by aliens.”

Your Doctor looks at you, eyes wide. “What makes you say that?” Humoring you.

“Well I...” You don't want to say it. “I think I was probed.” You whisper.

Silence. “I don't think I'm... qualified to treat that.” Was it a joke or was he serious? You try reading his face but it's a mystery.

Everyone in the waiting room looks up at you, being escorted by two men. You proudly smile, maybe even wink at a soccer mom. The Doctor whispers something to the secretary. This is the last time you'll see this Doctor professionally and you've never been happier to have been visited by aliens. You wave with your little fingers moving individually to the Doctor, who pretends not to see you and calls the next patient. The two men shove you along to the elevator. You would shout that the aliens were real, but you don't care if anyone believes you or not. The elevator doors close on you and time slows down as you descend to the bottom floor.