The Wait

     I walked into the animal hospital waiting room and sat down desperate for some good news about my dog. Everything about this room feels cold. The looks on the nurses faces, the plain white walls and tile floors, even the food is cold. Not that I feel like eating anyway. Everything tastes the same and eating will only give me something to throw up if the vet comes back with bad news. My palms are sweaty now. I try wiping them on my tough seat cover and the rough material scratches my palms but at least I know I can still feel things. I keep scratching my hands on the cover until my palms burn and there are a few small cuts on my skin. It's a good distraction from the complete silence around me. I feel like I'll go crazy if I continue to hear only the clicking of the secretary's fake nails on her keyboard, or the constant panting of dogs that have been waiting for hours, or the ticking sound of the clock just above my head. If I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to smash it. I'm getting a little nauseous with the wait. I try to distract myself again by counting everything in the room. Three elderly couples. Two families, two children each. One with one a boy and girl, one with twin girls. All look between eight and twelve. Four dogs and one cat. 36 boring white tiles in my vision. 52 equally boring ceiling tiles. No picture frames. Fourteen uncomfortable, scratchy chairs. One secretary and one nurse. While counting, I see someone out of the corner of my eye and turn to look. It's the doctor working with my dog. She slowly walks towards me with a somber expression. She quietly tells me something. I nod my head, turn around, grab the clock off the wall and chuck it.