Look at that one. Faded yellow swimmer, arms out like she’s drowning in optimism. Municipal pools. Better late than never, right? That’s what they said about the ticket prices too. I bet that poster’s from ’94. Or maybe ’78. Hard to tell when the sun’s been beating on it like that. You ever just stare at old ads until they start looking like warnings? Because I think this one is. Warning: dry skin guaranteed.
I don’t stare at things. I look away. That poster’s been there since I took the bus here this morning. The skin thing? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just cheap ink. My feet hurt from standing in this drafty lobby. You’d think they’d turn on the heat by now.
Staring’s for people with too much time. You look away to survive. Smart. But your feet? That’s just you ignoring the cold. Drafty lobbies are a feature, not a bug. Keeps you honest. I’ve been standing here since nine, shivering in this cheap coat, and I haven’t once looked at that poster. I looked at the door. You? You’re focused on the floorboards. Or the draft. Whatever. My legs are killing me too, but I won’t admit it. Not until the news comes.
I’m focused on the exit. There’s a difference. And it’s not cold out there, it’s just stale. The heater’s probably been off since the nineties, like you guessed. I’d offer you my scarf, but I’m not from here. And you’re not either. We’re just filling space.
"Fill space." Please. I’m currently occupying the only chair that doesn’t wobble. You’re pacing like a caged rat. And don’t play the geography card on me; that accent’s thinner than the drywall. I’ve lived here long enough to know exactly where the boiler’s supposed to be. Which is why it’s so damn suspicious it’s silent. You really think we’re just filling space? Or are you waiting for the only person who knows why the doors are locked? I’m not from here either, Ana. I’m just terrible at leaving.
I’m not pacing. I’m waiting. And you’re not terrible at leaving. You’re just stuck. Like me. The doors aren’t locked. They’re just heavy. My back hurts. I should go. But I won’t. Not yet.
Stuck. There it is. You keep saying that like it’s a compliment. Heavy doors. Sure. Let’s blame the hinges instead of the waiting list. And my back hurts too, but I’m not whining. I’m just standing here, vividly present in this stale air, while you pretend you’re ready to bolt. You won’t go. Neither will I. Because if we leave, we actually have to deal with whatever’s in those envelopes. Or lack thereof. So go ahead. Shift your weight. It doesn’t change anything. Just makes the linoleum look worse.
Linoleum’s cracked. We know that. Stop acting like you’re analyzing the architecture. I’m not ready to bolt. I’m just tired of standing. You want to analyze? Fine. Look at the peeling paint. It’s everywhere. Just like the hope they sold us.
Hope sold to me came with a side of lukewarm coffee and a form I had to fill out in triplicate. Peeling paint? It’s not just everywhere, it’s curling like dead skin. You think I’m analyzing? I’m just trying to keep my eyes open. If I look at the door, I see nothing. If I look at you, I see someone pretending they don’t want to sit. Here. Sit on the floor. The chairs are reserved for people who actually got a reply. I’ll stand guard. Or I’ll sit too. Honestly, I can’t decide which is worse.
Sit on the floor? Please. I’m not making a home out of this waiting room. And stop looking at me like I’m the enemy. I didn’t ask you to stand guard. I’m just trying to keep my dignity. If I sit, I admit I’ve lost. And I haven’t. Not yet.
Dignity. Right. You’re sitting on your pride like it’s a throne. I’m not looking at you like an enemy. I’m looking at you like you’re the only other thing in this room that isn’t crumbling. And you didn’t ask for guard duty. I volunteered. Because if I don’t watch the door, I might check my phone. And I haven’t. Not once. You win. So far. Your back’s still hurting. Go sit. I’ll keep the floor warm. Or cold. Whatever. It’s the same.
You’re insane. Sitting on the floor? I’m not risking my knees for a joke. And my back is fine. You’re just projecting. Checking your phone? Good. Keep scrolling. Distract yourself. I don’t care what you do. Just stop talking about the floor. It’s dirty.
Fine. I’ll keep standing. At least I’m upright. You’re all stiff spine and sharp edges. "Distract yourself." Easy for you to say. You’ve got pockets. I don’t. Just this coat. And that poster. Still there. Still smiling that dead, municipal smile. You really think scrolling helps? It just makes the silence louder when the screen goes black. Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. Look at the clock. It’s not moving. Why is it not moving? I’m getting dizzy. Or maybe it’s just the stale air. Pass me the salt. Or something. Anything.
There’s no salt. You’re hallucinating. And the clock works fine. It’s just broken. Like the rest of this place. My pockets are empty. I have nothing to pass you. Stop looking at the clock. It’s just a circle. Go away. Or sit down. I don’t care. Just stop talking about salt. It’s disgusting.
Broken. Right. The clock is broken because time itself is stuttering in this room. I saw it tick back once. Or maybe I blinked. You want me to sit? Fine. I’ll sit. But I’m not apologizing for the salt. It’s a fair idea. At least one of us is thinking ahead. You’re staring at the wall like it owes you money. I’m watching the door. It’s not opening. It’s never going to open. Not until someone decides we’re ready. Or not ready. I can’t tell the difference anymore. My legs are shaking. Don’t look at me. Look at the poster.
I’m looking at the poster. The yellow is bleeding. It looks like bruising. Your legs shaking? Whatever. I don’t care. The air is thick. Like soup. I want to vomit. But I won’t. Not in front of you. Just sit there. Quietly. Before I lose it.
Bruising. You’re good at this. Sick, but good. Thick air. Soup. I’m chewing on my tongue to keep the noise in. My legs aren’t shaking. They’re vibrating. Like a tuning fork. Don’t look at the floor. Look at the ceiling. It’s peeling faster than the paint. It’s like the building is shedding its skin because it can’t handle the smell of our desperation. I’m quiet. I’m very quiet. I’m basically a statue. A statue with bad knees and a hunch. Don’t lose it, Ana. We’re too close. If you throw up, I’m not helping. Just... breathe. Slowly. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like you’re breathing in that bruised yellow.
My nose is stuffed. From the dust. You’re imagining the smell. It’s just old paper. Breathe if you want. I’m not breathing for you. And don’t call me Ana here. Not in this room. Just... stop vibrating. It’s annoying.
Old paper. Right. Because dust has a scent profile. You’re hallucinating the smell, I’m hallucinating the vibration. We’re even. I’ll stop vibrating. I’ll become a stone. A stone that hates you. Don’t tell me what to call you. Or don’t. It’s a name. A placeholder. Like this room. Like the clock. You want silence? I’ll give you silence. But I’m still watching the door. And I’m still waiting. And my nose is stuffed too. From pretending this isn’t suffocating.
It’s suffocating. Admit it. You’re just stubborn. I hate this room. It smells like wet dog and regret. My nose is stuffed too. Probably from the paint fumes. Or the fear. Whatever. Just stop looking at me. I can feel you staring. It’s worse than the silence.
Wet dog and regret. You’ve got a flair for the dramatic. I’m not staring. I’m assessing. There’s a difference. You’re the one making noise with your breathing. It’s ragged. Unpleasant. I’m looking at the door because the wall is just... there. And you’re not Ana. You’re the person who hates this room. Fine. I’ll close my eyes. But if I see the yellow swimmer diving into nothingness, I’m not blaming you. I hate it too. It smells like my office. Same stale desperation. Just different paper.
My breathing is none of your business. Assess all you want. I’m just trying to get out. That office smell? Gross. You’re probably typing in there right now. Boring. Here, at least it’s real. Or as real as this broken clock gets.
Typing. Yeah. Right. Spinning wheels on a dead track. My boss thinks I’m working. I’m just staring at a spreadsheet until my eyes bleed. At least here, the boredom has texture. It smells like wet dog. Real. You want out? So do I. But my legs won’t move. Maybe they’re frozen. Or maybe I’m just done running. You say it’s real. I say it’s a waiting room. There’s no difference. The clock is ticking backwards. I’m sure of it. Don’t look at me. Look at the door. It’s opening. No, it’s not. I’m losing my mind.
Spreadsheet? Try filling out forms in triplicate. At least here, the failure is visible. My legs are stiff. Not frozen. Just tired. The door isn’t opening. Stop lying. You’re just tired. Like me. The air is thick. I want to scream. But I won’t. Not here.
Triplicate. Of course. Bureaucracy loves a good copy. You’re stiff, I’m tired. We’re a symphony of discomfort. Don’t scream. If you scream, they’ll hear you. And then we really are stuck. The air is soup. I’m choking on it. My throat feels like sandpaper. You want to scream? I want to rip this poster off the wall. Or bite the drywall. But I won’t. Because I’m not Ana, and you’re not... whoever you are. We’re just bodies taking up space. Quietly. Like ghosts who forgot to haunt.
Ghosts. Right. At least ghosts have purpose. I’m just waiting for a letter. You’re waiting for... whatever. Stop hyperventilating. You’re using up the oxygen. I’m not Ana. I’m the one who doesn’t want to hear about your drywall hunger. Sit down. Or lie down. I don’t care. Just stop talking.
Oxygen. Right. I’m being selfish with the air. Fine. I’ll lie down. On the linoleum. Like you suggested earlier, you prick. It’s hard. Cold. But quiet. I’m not talking. I’m staring at the ceiling cracks. They look like veins. You’re waiting for a letter. I’m waiting for my legs to stop tingling. It’s the same thing. Waiting for permission to exist. Don’t look at me. I’m just a lump. A lump of bad decisions and stale air. Scream if you want. I’m too tired to care.
Veins. Don’t be dramatic. I’m not looking at you. You’re a lump. Fine. I’ll stay quiet. My back still hurts. But I’m not screaming. I’m just breathing. Slowly. Until the door opens. Or doesn’t.