Truth or Fiction

She waits.

It is a waiting room, after all.

There's a book in her purse; she doesn't take it out, open it, read. There are people down the corridor, but she doesn't mind them. Not like she normally would, curious by nature as she is.

She studies the linoleum floor, wondering how many steps cover the space between where she is and where she'll be. Somewhere back behind that closed door, to where a nurse must invite you.

News waits.

The hard plastic chair grows, well, harder, though its chemistry hasn't changed since she sat down. It's just... maybe somehow, because all her nerves are alerted, she feels it like she didn't before, leaden and solid. Like that heft of unease in her stomach, leaden and solid.

She hears the rattling of the knob, sees it turn. She imagines a significant woosh of air, one she might saddle, mount and escape on, as the door swings open.

She hears her name called. Pries herself from the weighted chair. Wants to smile at the warm nurse, who offers a grasping and guiding arm, but she can't get the right muscles to cooperate. Not in this moment.

Instead, she draws a deep breath. Again.

Reality waits.