amphibi.us

I’m listening to the general chatter of people around me. Normal every day things, and hating them for it. My fingers are frighteningly white against the matte black plastic of the armchairs, flexing and unflexing as I listen.

“Did you bring a lunch?”

“No, I was thinking of going over to the Wendy’s. Wanna come?”

“I’ll pass, I brought a sandwich. But let me know when you take lunch, I’ll come smoke with you before you go.”

“Cool. I’ll let you know, I’ve gotta run upstairs real quick. Hand me that tube? Thanks.”

They’re rushing around, taking care of normal every day things. And I’m sitting here, flexing and unflexing my fingers, watching everyone pass around me. They don’t take any notice of me, almost trained not to settle their eyes on people like me, and there are many of us. Sitting in matte black plastic armchairs up and down the aisles. My hair is messy and I don’t give a shit.

“Did you see Lost last night?” I look up, but this girl isn’t speaking to me. She is smiling and barely containing her excitement as her friend nods. She explodes into various ‘oh my god’ and ‘I couldn’t believe it’ exclamations and the two laugh, walking down the hallway. They do not look at me. Slowly, I stand, check my hair in the reflection of an approximation of a painting, a piece of ‘art’ mass produced to hang in long hallways under fluorescent lighting that couldn’t be considered offensive to anyone. My hair is still messy.

Stepping into the room across from that chair, littered in old tissues, I look upon my lover. He doesn’t see me. No one in this entire building sees me. I kneel by his side and nod, once, slowly, at a person with a carefully trained expression on his face. He does not smile, or look unhappy. Just empty. Carefully empty as he bows his head towards me, and turns off the machines.

Outside the room, under the unpleasant fluorescent lights, a pair of twenty-somethings rummage through their purses for packs of cigarettes and complain about their bosses. Inside the room, the respirator turns off. My lover’s chest ceases to rise and fall with regular rhythm. The orderly keeps his eyes off of me, turns off a few dials, and pulls the sheets up over my husband’s face. He exits the room, careful not to make any contact with me, and begins to whistle as he jogs down the hallway.

“Hey guys, wait up – Can I bum one?”

© Shannon Peil, 2009

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