The waiting room was uncomfortable.
Although there was a bold yellow sign on the wall prohibiting it, a fat, white, good ol' boy chattered away arrogantly on his cell; never trust a contractor to follow the rules.
People eyed each other blankly. A few of the women whispered softly to each other; pointless, we were all sitting in such close proximity to one another you could clearly hear the conversation on the far side of the room. The natural reverb coming off the walls made the sniffling, the throat-clearing, the muffled farts, all ring out perfectly.
I fought the urge to clap my hands and snap my fingers to further test the ambience. If I knew how to jazz dance I might've gotten up, sprinkled some sand on the floor, and performed a soft shoe for the elderly folk.
It was too early in the morning for me.
It was too early in the morning for me to wish I was dead.
She appeared. She called my name. Finally.
She wore a paper-thin disposable lab coat. The entire staff of the blood lab wore them, even the women who didn't handle needles. It presented a uniform front of antiseptic sterility. Cold and somehow detached; a counterpoint to the mischievous grins they exchanged amongst themselves.
As she led me to the "Wine room", I noticed something sparkling cling to the shoulder of her lab coat. This blood lab has a theme for each bloodletting room. The Wine room has a wine rack in it, there are shelves with prop pieces of bread and cheese adorning them. There's a large poster of what appears to be a view of Paris at night.
I haven't been in every bloodletting room (I don't know what they're supposed to be called), the most bizarre room I've seen is the "Boudoir", there's an antique mannequin in there, wearing what I assume must be Haute couture purchased from some exotic location. There's a heavy, oil-polished cabinet against the wall, doors ajar, with frilly prop undergarments hanging in it.
...while she still had her back turned, I quickly reached out and plucked the sparkling thing from her coat. She was alluring. Pretty, but tired. Blond. Good posture. She asked me the requisite questions.
I answered politely, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice; I thought I sounded smoother than usual. I usually sound like a cartoon character.
She pressed the crook in my arm, feeling for the vein. I watched acutely, I have an enduring fear of someone screwing up and sticking a used needle in me. When they stick it in, I look away. I hate needles. I have weak veins, chemo messes up your veinous system. Sometimes, it takes several tries to get a decent draw.
It was quick. I was thankful. We parted ways, I think she told me to have a nice day as I walked out. Back through the waiting room, a dozen people turning to look me over. Probably wondering what's wrong with me. Or maybe just wary of the "gangsta". Bored, apprehensive of the needle, tired of waiting. Tired. It was too early in the morning.
Outside, I held the sparkling thing up to the light. A strand of hair infused with specks of gold.
Although there was a bold yellow sign on the wall prohibiting it, a fat, white, good ol' boy chattered away arrogantly on his cell; never trust a contractor to follow the rules.
People eyed each other blankly. A few of the women whispered softly to each other; pointless, we were all sitting in such close proximity to one another you could clearly hear the conversation on the far side of the room. The natural reverb coming off the walls made the sniffling, the throat-clearing, the muffled farts, all ring out perfectly.
I fought the urge to clap my hands and snap my fingers to further test the ambience. If I knew how to jazz dance I might've gotten up, sprinkled some sand on the floor, and performed a soft shoe for the elderly folk.
It was too early in the morning for me.
It was too early in the morning for me to wish I was dead.
She appeared. She called my name. Finally.
She wore a paper-thin disposable lab coat. The entire staff of the blood lab wore them, even the women who didn't handle needles. It presented a uniform front of antiseptic sterility. Cold and somehow detached; a counterpoint to the mischievous grins they exchanged amongst themselves.
As she led me to the "Wine room", I noticed something sparkling cling to the shoulder of her lab coat. This blood lab has a theme for each bloodletting room. The Wine room has a wine rack in it, there are shelves with prop pieces of bread and cheese adorning them. There's a large poster of what appears to be a view of Paris at night.
I haven't been in every bloodletting room (I don't know what they're supposed to be called), the most bizarre room I've seen is the "Boudoir", there's an antique mannequin in there, wearing what I assume must be Haute couture purchased from some exotic location. There's a heavy, oil-polished cabinet against the wall, doors ajar, with frilly prop undergarments hanging in it.
...while she still had her back turned, I quickly reached out and plucked the sparkling thing from her coat. She was alluring. Pretty, but tired. Blond. Good posture. She asked me the requisite questions.
I answered politely, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice; I thought I sounded smoother than usual. I usually sound like a cartoon character.
She pressed the crook in my arm, feeling for the vein. I watched acutely, I have an enduring fear of someone screwing up and sticking a used needle in me. When they stick it in, I look away. I hate needles. I have weak veins, chemo messes up your veinous system. Sometimes, it takes several tries to get a decent draw.
It was quick. I was thankful. We parted ways, I think she told me to have a nice day as I walked out. Back through the waiting room, a dozen people turning to look me over. Probably wondering what's wrong with me. Or maybe just wary of the "gangsta". Bored, apprehensive of the needle, tired of waiting. Tired. It was too early in the morning.
Outside, I held the sparkling thing up to the light. A strand of hair infused with specks of gold.
But you didn't get a phone number?
But Paris at night? The boudior? Where is this place?