Waiting Room

Zhu sat in the corner of the waiting room, brightly lit with quietly humming LED lamps. The room smelled of linoleum-cleaning liquid and a dried-out sewer pipe. Ammonia and feces, fitting, Zhu thought.

Five people waited with him. All of them were sitting in the same pose: straight back, hands on their laps, looking at the wall in front of them. Barely moving, barely breathing. Five faces with mouths shut and lips sagging down. Five pairs of eyes that didn’t even blink. All of them were wearing grey trousers. Their t-shirts might have added color if they weren’t all washed out and faded. Fuck, I’m turning into them, he thought when he caught himself putting his hands on his lap and sitting with his back straight. Zhu waited.

“Mr Li,” a nurse in scrubs peeked her head out of an office and called. One person stood up and walked towards the door, looking at the floor the whole time. Zhu raised his head and observed the man. His steps short, shaky. A creamy envelope sticking out of the trouser back pocket. Mr. Li disappeared into the office. Zhu stretched his plastic wristband.

“Mr. Zhu,” the nurse said. “Please get ready.” She handed Zhu a brown envelope, looking at the floor. The door thudded shut behind the nurse. Zhu rotated the envelope in his hands. Took a lighter out of a jeans pocket. Thumb on the striker wheel. Dropped the lighter into a trash bin. The envelope disappeared into his back pocket.

Five people raised their hands to their mouths and coughed. Zhu raised his left hand and coughed. He set his hands in his lap. Straightened his back. Stared at the wall. His lips began to sag.