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The room is wallpapered with some pebbled white plastic.  It hasn’t had time to get dirty.

Didi sits in a black leather and chrome waiting chair.  The design is striking, but it doesn’t fit her back.

The receptionist is dressed as a nightmare nurse, though she has never handled any injection more delicate than reloading the printer ink.

Didi sits at the dark end, looking towards the light.

The man with no foot rises when called and walks unevenly through the swinging door.  Like the others, he never reappears.

Didi wonders about the other exit.  Maybe it leads to the park.  Maybe it leads to the parking garage.

The receptionist stands, a black silhouette against the window, regarding Didi.

It’s Didi’s turn.

The hallway is long and wallpapered in the same pebble pattern, but now it’s light green, lemongrass color.

Didi is supposed to feel reassured.

Didi is supposed to feel hope.

Perhaps there is no doctor, no transplant, no bionic replacement for her broken part.

Perhaps they won’t turn, but will walk forever down the hallway, to the park or parking lot.

Pausing at the door, the receptionist sees Didi’s face and becomes herself more human.

“It’s okay, Miss.  I’m sure he can help you out, whatever it is.  We get all kinds here, and he can always help them out.”

Didi walks through the doorway.  The walls in here are blue.

Blue is calming.  Blue sky.  Color me blue.  Am I blue?

Didi watches the doctor watching her.

She sees his hair, which does not match his face.

He sees her legs.  Her skirt is unfashionably short.

“Doctor?” she says and he replies, “Please sit down.”

“Doctor, it’s my heart.  I broke my heart.”


Leslie Ingham is a founding member of the Portuguese Artists Colony.  She is currently at work on a novel.

Read more stories by Leslie Ingham


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