By: Joan Slatoff

They should have private waiting areas at this clinic. It’s embarrassing; everyone knows why we’re here. 

There’s only the two of us in reception at the moment, me and that girl in the corner chair. I used to sit in that chair so I could see anything that happened. Just like that girl now, sitting in the safest place. 

Now I sit by the large ficus plant, trying to be inconspicuous. I washed my hair with henna shampoo to make it shine. My pretty new blouse with the tiny rosebuds is tucked into my clean blue jeans.

It wasn’t long ago my eyes were wide like hers, my body jumpy, hair greasy. The old pink sweatpants I wore forever. I can feel the remembering of it. Or remember the feel of it. She’s wearing pajama bottoms I think. Regular pants aren’t covered by penguins. I don’t say that to be critical. Nothing wrong with that. Wearing pajamas in public, I mean.

It’s probably best not to make eye contact, but I want to reassure her in some way. I don’t want to scare her or make her feel uncomfortable. 

If I smile at her, she may think I’m one of them. The better-thans. The normals. The look down ons. The pitiers. I know. I’ve received those smiles. It sucks.

Now she’s tapping her foot pretty fast. Tap tap tappity tap. I wonder if she’s about to flee. Her eyes dart to the office door, to the floor, to the door out. 

Nonchalantly plunking my purse on the seat next to me and rising as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I slip over to the coffee urn and put a cup under the nozzle. 

“Know if this coffee is any good?” I ask. I’ve never dared to take advantage of the free drinks here before.

The girl’s body changes- less jittery. Her toe stops tapping. Bright shiny eyes look at me out of a pasty face. “Not half as good as Dunkin Donuts, but it’ll do,” she says.

I take a sip, feeling the rigid styrofoam on my lips and grimace at the bitter taste. Giving her a conspiratorial glance, I peel open three sugar packets and dump them in. 

“You’re right! It’ll do just fine,” I say.

She chokes out a giggle. I laugh out loud.

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Joan Slatoff’s work has appeared in Exposition Review, Bangalore Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Sequestrum, Isele and elsewhere