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Roomies

Roomies


Description : Roomies
This is to anyone who ever dialed 867-5309

and hoped to talk to Jenny.

SO HERE I am, at 8:26 in the AM, all smiles for the first victim—I mean, patient, of the day. For the record, I hate mornings. I don't know whose record that information is going on, but it's going on someone's. And consciously awake and functional? Not before 10:00.

She (the patient) is looking less than thrilled to be here, but I don’t let that deter me or cause my overly perky smile to falter. The air around us is cloaked in a medicinal smell that is astringent to the point of burning nostril hairs if you breathe too deeply, or making your eyes water if you stand in just the right spot. It's from all the many—healthy andpletely harmless, of course—chemicals and cleaning solutions used in the office. I'm used to it, so out of habit I take shallow breaths. I'm all about being shallow. Maybe that's the patient's problem—she isn't breathing properly and the fumes are getting to her. I decide that must be the reason for the nasty scowl upon her weathered face. Who wouldn’t want to be here?

I walk up to where she is sitting in the waiting room—a small area with white walls, five chairs, two large windows, and a wood floor. It also houses framed medical jargon on almost every inch of wall space. Oh, and a big red blow-up heart (the organ, not the pretty one that symbolizes love) that kids are forever trying to turn into a punching bag, much to the receptionist's frustration. Although, I mean,e on, I've even punched it a time or two while passing by. It just screams to be whacked.

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