Waiting Room

Waiting Room
by Michelle Camitan

My sweat was dripping. I can actually feel it dripping down my face, my neck, my back. I have no idea why my hands are shaking. Plus they’re numb, which means they’re probably cold. It must be the cold. But there is no air conditioner. It must be me.

Criss cross, criss cross, my legs go. I can’t stop. I have to stop. Something bad might happen. At the start of August, I knew something bad might happen. It’s almost the end of the month, and it still hasn’t happened, but it might. It might.

My stomach churned at the thought, and I gasped instead of breathed. Only five more minutes until my turn.
Waiting and waiting. Then the elevator dings, and I stand up from my seat.

My psychologist is here.