Wednesday, August 05, 2015

Waiting Room

I'm back at the heart specialist today. In the waiting room. I come here regularly enough to know that I will wait for hours to see the doctor for less than five minutes so he can tell me that that one valve in my heart that doesn't work exactly right is still working right enough to keep blood flowing.

I get a kick out of the receptionist. She is a middle-aged lady with a flat, mumbling voice. Like she doesn't care enough about this job to even open her mouth when she talks. When I come up to the counter, she always says, "I see you, have a seat." Like I should not be wasting her time by standing in front of her. But the one time I came and didn't go up to the counter, she said, with what could be considered a frown if she'd put any effort into it, "You have to come up and let me know you're here." Both times, she spoke to me like I was an idiot. But I think that's how she speaks to everyone. 

Except for one person.

She got a phone call a few minutes ago, answered it the way that she always does, and then squealed, literally squealed like a thirteen year old girl. She opened her mouth, the way that normal people do when they talk, and shrieked, "OH!! Hello! It is so good to hear your voice, sweetheart!...Of course I miss you...mmhm...the sun isn't shining here either, Boo." 

But the sun is, in fact, shining here. So I can only assume that this was meant to be some kind of lovey metaphor.

When she hung up the phone, her mouth pressed back into a straight line and she went back to talking like her lips were sewn shut.

I have been here for almost two hours.