A Slow Afternoon

Lunch rush is over. Irene's with a 1:00 that's running long. The waiting room has one person in it, reading a two-year-old magazine. You're alone at the desk with a stack of routine tasks and a mug of coffee that's gone lukewarm.

The fax machine — still very much in use here — spits out a records request from a clinic two towns over. The 1:30 slot hasn't shown. The phone rings for the third time in ten minutes.

None of it is urgent. All of it is yours.