Seven

The doctor’s name should have been Sam. He had the hair of a Sam. He spoke in introductions, bodies and conclusions. Every sentence was a micro-essay. In effect, he said everything thrice. I now know with three times as much certainty that I have a common, unthreatening cough.

The woman with the limp goes in next. It doesn’t take very long. Soon Sam comes out and has a word with the secretary. The secretary shuffles some papers, then files some, sorts through others, and finally finds what the doctor is after. The woman with the limp fishes around in her bag and presents a similar document. Sam stamps both, and all is well. The woman is welcome to come back tomorrow to stamp some more papers if she still isn’t better.

In comes a boy with a coat. He takes off his hat and asks the secretary a question. She shakes her head. He searches his pockets, but doesn’t find quite what he’s after. The secretary offers the phone, but he’s no-one to call. They talk for a moment more and come to no solution. The boy with the coat leaves with no fuss.

The secretary shuffles more papers uncomfortably.

By now the boy is probably out on the street. He wraps his coat around him and trudges along, concerned about his wellbeing. He might just have an ordinary cough. An ordinary cough and an extraordinarily slow rate of healing. But he can’t find out, now. And neither can Sam. Nor the secretary, nor the woman with the limp, nor I. He could be dead in a drain next month, with none of us any the wiser.

This entry was written on June 13, 2007 by Alice Albert. It is about/includes mentions of life, people, possibilities. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site.