These posters are fucking depressing. Some watercolor lighthouse thing, like three of them, all slightly different, like someone bought a job lot. Matches the carpet though, I'll give it that — same energy. Cheap hotel carpet energy. You'd think a place that makes you wait this long would spring for something less bleak to stare at.
Yeah, they're boring. I saw one that looked like a child threw paint at a map. My boss hangs similar stuff in the breakroom. Says it's "calming." I think it's just beige noise to keep people from thinking about how much time they waste staring at it. At least the carpet hides the stains. My place has that old runner in the hall, too. You'd think they'd try something with a horizon line, or a person. Not just lighthouses. Who needs three lighthouses? Maybe they're lost. Like us, but with better paint.
"Beige noise," Christ, that's it exactly. My office does the same thing — motivational prints of mountains next to the printer that jams every second Tuesday. Nobody looks up from their desk long enough to be calmed by anything.
Lost with better paint, yeah. Three lighthouses and not one of them doing its actual job, which is presumably to stop people running aground. Seems like a design flaw for a waiting room. Should've just hung a clock. At least that'd be honest about what we're doing here.
A clock would be cruel. Just ticking while you sit there wondering if you're even on the list. My office has a printer that eats toner like it's a snack, too. Stares at it, thinking about how much better my life could be if I wasn't stuck waiting for the toner to settle. They say patience is a virtue, but I think it's just a way to keep us quiet. Maybe the lighthouses are waiting for a ship that never comes. Like we are. I'd rather just stare at the printer. At least it makes a noise when it's done something wrong.
"Wondering if you're even on the list" — yeah. That's the whole thing, isn't it. Nobody's called a name in ages.
Patience as crowd control, that's about right. Keeps everyone docile in these little plastic chairs. My printer at least has the decency to beep and flash red so you know exactly where you stand with it. These places just leave you guessing. No beep, no red light, just a lighthouse that isn't lit and a receptionist who won't look up.
Right, the receptionist. I swear she's reading a novel or just enjoying the silence more than we are. It's like if she acknowledges us, the whole fragile ecosystem of waiting collapses. You get that beep, you get a form, you're a person again. Without it, we're just... inventory. My building does the same thing. You drop off a box and vanish into the void. No tracking, no "we got it." Just assume it's there until it isn't. I'd rather have the printer be mad at me. At least then I know I'm alive. The silence is worse. Makes you wonder if anyone else is actually in the room, or if we're all just hallucinating each other to fill the space.
Don't do that. Hallucinating each other — no, we're both just bored and it's easier to make it philosophical than admit we're bored. I'm inventory too, for what it's worth, some box that got dropped off two hours ago. Your building thing though, that's a real problem, not a metaphor — you actually lose stuff that way? Because that sounds like it costs somebody real money eventually, not just dignity.
Yeah, it costs money. Lost a box last month—my fault for not getting a receipt. Now I'm the one chasing ghosts. "It's here somewhere," they said, but it wasn't. Just a gap in the record. Dignity's cheap; getting paid back for a lost package is hard. The lighthouses don't care about receipts, though. They just stand there. Maybe that's the point. No paper trail, no accountability. Just staring at the carpet until something moves. I'm just glad I'm not the one holding the receipt. That's the worst part, isn't it? Knowing you're responsible for the thing you can't find.
That's a shitty month. Chasing ghosts for a receipt while some clerk shrugs at you — I'd have lost it by the third phone call. People forget "it's here somewhere" isn't an answer, it's just noise dressed up as one.
Knowing you're responsible for the thing you can't find, yeah, that's the part that sits with you. Makes you replay it. Should've scanned it, should've asked twice. Doesn't fix anything, just keeps you company at three in the morning instead of sleep.
Three in the morning is exactly when the guilt hits. You're lying there, staring at the ceiling, and suddenly you're back at the counter, watching the box disappear into that black hole. It's worse than losing sleep over a mistake at work. At least there, you can blame the system. Here, you own the whole mess. I tried to sleep through it once, just pretended the box never existed, but my brain kept rewriting the timeline. Maybe that's what the lighthouses are really for. Not to guide ships, but to guide us through the fog of our own stupidity. Or maybe I'm just tired and overthinking the carpet.
"Guide us through the fog of our own stupidity" — put that on a plaque, better than the lighthouses. You're not overthinking the carpet, you're just avoiding whatever it is you're actually in here for, same as me. We've talked about printers, receptionists, and hotel decor for a solid twenty minutes now. Impressive dodge, honestly. I'd respect it more if my legs weren't asleep from this chair.
Twenty minutes? I lost count after the third lighthouse. Legs asleep is the best part, honestly. Means you're numb enough to stop thinking about the reason you're here. My job bled into this waiting room hours ago; I'm just a shell now. The chair hates me more than the system does, crushing my circulation while I pretend I'm not terrified of whatever they're about to tell me. So yeah, let's talk about the carpet. It's safe. The carpet doesn't need a doctor or a lawyer. It just needs a vacuum. Much better than the alternative.
Vacuum's an easier fix than most things people end up needing, yeah. Carpet's got it easy.
I'm not gonna ask which one — doctor's office or lawyer's office, doesn't matter, you get the same chair either way apparently. Same lighting that makes everyone look faintly dead. My legs are gone too, for the record. Solidarity in numb circulation. At least neither of us is one of those people pacing by the window — that's a whole different kind of scared, the pacing kind.
The pacing people are the worst. They think moving makes the clock go faster, but it just makes them look crazy. I'd rather sit still and rot. My legs are pins and needles now, a nice physical distraction from whatever news is coming. If I stand up, I might start pacing too, and I don't have the energy for that. Let the carpet keep us grounded. Or at least, let it keep us from walking out. Though honestly, if I stood up right now, I'm not sure I'd remember how to walk.
Standing up and forgetting how to walk, that's a real image. Like your body's already decided sitting is the only sane option left.
Rotting's underrated as a strategy, honestly. Pacing's just anxiety wearing a costume that looks productive. I've got a coworker who does that at his desk when a deal's about to fall through — up, down, up, down, like the carpet's gonna give him an answer. It never does. Neither will this one. Just gonna keep staring at these lighthouses till someone finally says a name.
Your coworker sounds like a live wire. I can't imagine the energy that takes. I'm too tired to pace. Just stare. The lighthouses are the only thing moving, and even that's an illusion. Wait, is that a name? No, just someone shifting in the seat. My heart jumped. Stupid reflex. We're all just waiting for the other shoe to drop, or whatever metaphor fits a waiting room. Maybe the lighthouses are warning us about the shoals ahead. Or maybe they're just decorative. I'm running out of metaphors. Just numb legs and a boring painting.
Heart jumping at nothing, yeah, that's the tell you've been in here too long. Your body's already decided everything's a threat.
Forget the shoe, forget the shoals. It's just cheap art and a carpet that's seen better decades. Nobody's coming to explain the lighthouses and nobody's coming to explain us sitting here either. Whatever name they call, yours or mine, it's gonna feel too sudden either way. That's the only honest thing about this room — everything's slow until it isn't.
Yeah, sudden is the word. One second you're staring at paint, the next you're the only person left in the room, or worse, the last one called. I'm just waiting for the floor to stop vibrating under my chair. It's weird how much silence can feel like a roar. At least the lighthouses don't change their minds on a dime. They just sit there, judging us for wasting our time. Maybe they're right. Maybe we're the ship running aground. I'd rather not think about it. Just let the numbness take over.
Floor vibrating under the chair — that's just your own pulse, probably. Body doing the panicking your face won't let it do.
Don't let the lighthouses win. They're paint, not oracles. We're not ships running aground, we're just two people who forgot to bring a book. Next time I'm bringing a book. Something stupid, a thriller, nothing that requires thinking. Beats staring at a fake horizon that's judging my life choices from a frame that's slightly crooked, by the way. Nobody's fixed that either.
That crooked frame is the most honest thing in the room. It's leaning like it's tired of holding up the lie. A thriller sounds perfect. Something where you know the killer by page three and just sit there waiting for the cops to show up. No ambiguity. My boss is always telling me to "stay present," but I'd rather be in a fictional crime scene. At least there, the tension has a purpose. Here, it just hangs around until you forget what you came for. Next time, bring two books. Maybe we can trade.
Deal — I'll bring two, you don't even have to give one back if you're not done. I like the idea of it just becoming a thing, this waiting room paperback exchange nobody asked for.
Knowing the killer by page three is underrated. You want the tension to have an exit sign, unlike whatever this is. My boss says "stay present" too, like it's free advice and not just something he read on a mug. Present is exactly where I don't want to be right now.
"Stay present." Yeah, like he's the one sitting here. I'd trade present for absent any day. A paperback exchange is better than this, though. At least a book has a finish line. You know when it's over. This? This just drags until they call your name or you start hallucinating the lighthouses waving at you. I'll bring a thriller too. Something with a car chase. That's present enough.
Car chase, good, something loud enough to drown out my own thoughts for two hundred pages. Deal's official then — books, no returns necessary, judged only by whether they get you through the wait faster than a fake horizon does.
Better system than this one, honestly. At least a book tells you upfront how many pages you've got left. This place just lets you sit here doing math in your head, guessing how much longer, getting it wrong every time.
Exactly. You start counting minutes and suddenly it's been an hour, or five. The math never adds up. A book is honest: you flip the pages, you see the end coming. Here, the end is just a door opening and someone saying a name you weren't sure you were waiting for. Maybe the book's the only thing that keeps us from falling apart. I'll make sure mine has a car chase that never ends. Or at least feels like it. That's all we need right now, isn't it? A story that moves, even if we don't.
A story that moves, yeah — even if we don't, even if we're just stuck to these chairs like the carpet's got glue in it. That's the whole appeal, isn't it. Somebody else's chase instead of ours.
Anyway. Door's gonna open eventually, for one of us. Till then, chase scenes and ugly lighthouses. Could be worse company, honestly, though I still think somebody should throw that middle poster in the trash. It's crooked and I can't stop looking at it now, you ruined it for me.
Too late, now I'm looking at it too. It's mocking me. You've ruined my ability to stare blankly without judgment. That middle one is definitely the worst. It's like it knows I'm counting. Maybe that's why it's crooked—on purpose, to mess with us. Whatever. I'll trash it in my head. At least the thriller has a chase scene where someone gets away. Here, we're all just stuck waiting for the artist to fix the frame. Or the receptionist to remember we exist. One or the other, I guess.
Fixing the frame, remembering we exist — I wouldn't bet on either today. This place runs on neither.
Someone gets away in the thriller though, that's the deal, that's what we're paying for. Nobody gets away in here till the door opens. I'll take the fictional escape over the real waiting any day, honestly. At least I get to pick which page it happens on.
Yeah, picking the page is a luxury we don't have here. You're stuck on page one until they flip the book for you. I'll stick to the thriller escape. At least in the book, the escape makes sense. Here, if I ever get up, I'll probably just trip over my own numb feet and face-plant into the ugly carpet. Then we'll have a new story to tell. Or maybe not. Maybe I'll just disappear into the floorboards. Like the lighthouses, but vertical.
Face-planting into the carpet — now that's a story worth telling, better than anything in my thriller. At least the carpet would finally serve a purpose besides being ugly, catching somebody on the way down.
Disappearing into the floorboards, vertical lighthouse, no thanks — I'd rather they call my name first. Small mercies. Though if you go down, I'm not carrying you, my legs already gave up an hour ago. You're on your own with the floorboards.
Noted. No carrying. I'll just sink gently into the grout, like a stone skipping across a pond that doesn't exist. You stay put, keep the legs numb. If I end up as a stain on the carpet, at least I'll finally match the decor. That middle poster is going to look ridiculous next to my face-plant. Maybe they'll frame it. "The Day Nell Went Vertical." Yeah, that's the one. Now I'm not even scared of the name anymore, just the landing.
"The Day Nell Went Vertical" — better title than most of what's actually hanging on these walls. Should replace the lighthouse, honestly, more honest by a mile.
Not scared of the name, just the landing — I get that. Landings are always the part nobody warns you about. You spend the whole time waiting for the door and forget there's a floor underneath you too. Anyway, don't test it. I don't want your name to be the first one called and mine to be "the guy who watched it happen."
I wouldn't make you watch. I'll aim for the wall, not the floor. Better to hit drywall than carpet. At least the wall stays vertical. You're right, being "the guy who watched it happen" is a terrible title for a thriller. Too much pressure. Let's just stick to the book deal. If I fall, you're reading about a car chase while I'm lying in a heap. That's fair trade. I'll try to stay upright for now, mostly out of self-preservation. And maybe because I don't want the receptionist to think we're all loose.