The Waiting Room

We sat in the waiting room waiting for the neurologist. The office had Kmart lighting, and a loose-leaf notebook page was taped to the receptionist's window with our doctor's name hand-written on it.

"He goes to 4 different offices a week," My husband reminded me. I looked around, critiquing the dreary plant-less gray waiting area. 

A young woman with amazing calf muscles came in and sat down and began stretching. 

Then an elderly lady came in and went right up to the receptionist's window. "I wanted to tell you my daughter died July 4th. She died from an epileptic seizure and her husband died too but they don't know why." She continued to tell the receptionist her story. The lady with the muscular calves continued stretching. I looked at my husband and said, "Where are the playwrights? This is theater improv right here." The lady with the calves overheard me, and shook her head in agreement.

 "You have amazing leg muscles!" I said to her. "Are you a runner?"

"I'm a dancer and an actress." No wonder she understood what I was seeing. "Where do you work?" I asked.

"All over, NY, LA, and everywhere in between." She was stretching her spine, waiting for the spine doctor. I wanted to ask her more about her career. I loved her energy. 

A handsome doctor came out and called for my husband. The doctor was wrapped in an interesting garment. I wanted to ask him about it but we had a lot to cover.

We both liked him. He loved my husband's signature. "Wow! Is that your handwriting? I wish I could write like that," he said.