connexion

 

He preferred to stand.

The Monday afternoon sun, filtered by low ominous clouds, shone indirectly through the open blinds and painted the waiting room a dull shade of dread. Or perhaps the light, such as it was, merely exposed a hidden accumulation of weariness in a way that the clumsy starkness of the fluorescents could never manage.

Or maybe it's just me, thought Michael Novack.

The overhead lighting was off when he had entered the room, some twenty minutes prior to his scheduled appointment, and he had not felt inclined to switch it on. The room matched his mood, reflected it like a smoky mirror, and so he ran with it. There was comfort in the idea of a room that could sympathize with him. The only other occupants, a few dozen tropical fish loitering about in a fifty gallon tank, raised not a single objection. The decor was predictably expensive, perfect; the furniture, primp and untouchable. Even after ten minutes alone in the room, he couldn't bring himself to come into contact with the cappuccino couches. Would his mood somehow stain the rich, sophisticated upholstery? Would he detect the sofa's resentment, the loveseat's rejection?

I have to stop thinking this way, he told himself. It's not healthy; it's not like me.

Michael picked up his third magazine from the coffee table. People this time, six months old, and utterly out of place in the upscale anteroom of a prominent psychiatrist. The cover was littered with upbeat colors that were in complete contrast to the stories it advertised; the inside scoop of another high profile breakup, barely concealed glee at the unfortunate sex scandal of a late night talk show host, feigned sympathy for the latest young female celebrity to enter a recovery program. He noticed that “program” had been spelled without the trailing “m” and “e”. Was this the latest in a series of typographical errors of which only he seemed aware? Or just another nail in the coffin that would surely confine his sanity for the rest of eternity?