When will it not hurt so bad?
No one reads this. Happy birthday to me.
The shade is cool under the portico that makes up the edifice of this historic old building, what I gather used to be the original hospital. The large stone pillars make for a great hiding place. It's also several steps above ground level, providing a nice view of the landscaped quadrangle which serves as an island in a sea of sickness and vulnerability.
You would shit if you knew how close I was to you.
There are a lot of people outside this afternoon, which isn't surprising; it's an early spring thaw, with temps soaring into the low sixties. People like me—visitors tired of being inside a ten by twelve room dimly lit by artificial light, giving their friends and loved ones some time to rest while we go outside for a breath of fresh air. Some have taken the sick outside, dragging IV poles, or pushing wheelchairs, so they can enjoy a moment or two of sunshine. I have to wonder how long some of them have been ill and in the hospital.
Then there is the scrub-clad staff, taking a few moments of liberty to catch some rays as well. Some are taking their lunch at the tables, or sipping an iced coffee while they sit on the grass underneath the giant chestnut trees. You have chosen a table in the corner next to the granite stairs, and I sit here, a voyeur with a box seat. My pounding heart is audible to my own ears, so much so I'm afraid you can hear it too. But I don't move. I'm not sure if my motivation for staying put is fear or need.
I was nervous to come here, but there was no question I had to. A good family friend needed emergency surgery, so I flew east. In the back of mind was the knowledge you worked at this hospital, and I could potentially run into you. Then again I rationalized, this place is huge, and so what were the odds really— especially if I kept to the room and avoided the cafeteria?
Even though I have never heard your voice the moment I heard the sound of your laughter; in the split second it took for my head to look for the source of the sound, I knew it was you.
You have your feet up on a chair in front of you, shoes dropped carelessly underneath, and your pant legs rolled up to the knee. Sunglasses on, you're slouching with your head way back, beckoning the sun's rays to your face. So much so you have to tilt your cup of iced coffee to get the straw into your mouth, and the cool drops of condensation fall onto your neck and down your shirt, causing you to spring forward. You tug at the tee-shirt in an attempt to fan your skin dry, but end up just blotting with it. It leaves a spot. I find myself having very impure thoughts about licking the skin underneath clean.
The man you are sitting with laughs at your misfortune though. By your ease with each other and animated conversation I am guessing he is the friend I always heard about so much. I hate him. He gets to have coffee with you and make you laugh. He is the confident to your secrets and desires and not me. And I don’t care what you say; he wants to sleep with you. I can tell by the way he watched you rub your hand across the top of your chest just now.
I need to leave, but I'm afraid the movement will attract your attention. You're bored with whatever he's talking about. I see you wiggling your toes, and twirling your ID badge around your finger. You head leans back once more. The breeze catches your hair. It's shorter than I was in pictures I last saw of you. If I close my eyes I can imagine the scent of your shampoo being cast up my way and I inhale deeply. When I open them I see your face full on, and despite the large sunglasses hiding your eyes, the expression on your face leaves no doubt in my mind you are looking right at me. I've never had a panic attack before in my life but I know this is what one must feel like.
The shade is cool under the portico that makes up the edifice of this historic old building, what I gather used to be the original hospital. The large stone pillars make for a great hiding place. It's also several steps above ground level, providing a nice view of the landscaped quadrangle which serves as an island in a sea of sickness and vulnerability.
You would shit if you knew how close I was to you.
There are a lot of people outside this afternoon, which isn't surprising; it's an early spring thaw, with temps soaring into the low sixties. People like me—visitors tired of being inside a ten by twelve room dimly lit by artificial light, giving their friends and loved ones some time to rest while we go outside for a breath of fresh air. Some have taken the sick outside, dragging IV poles, or pushing wheelchairs, so they can enjoy a moment or two of sunshine. I have to wonder how long some of them have been ill and in the hospital.
Then there is the scrub-clad staff, taking a few moments of liberty to catch some rays as well. Some are taking their lunch at the tables, or sipping an iced coffee while they sit on the grass underneath the giant chestnut trees. You have chosen a table in the corner next to the granite stairs, and I sit here, a voyeur with a box seat. My pounding heart is audible to my own ears, so much so I'm afraid you can hear it too. But I don't move. I'm not sure if my motivation for staying put is fear or need.
I was nervous to come here, but there was no question I had to. A good family friend needed emergency surgery, so I flew east. In the back of mind was the knowledge you worked at this hospital, and I could potentially run into you. Then again I rationalized, this place is huge, and so what were the odds really— especially if I kept to the room and avoided the cafeteria?
Even though I have never heard your voice the moment I heard the sound of your laughter; in the split second it took for my head to look for the source of the sound, I knew it was you.
You have your feet up on a chair in front of you, shoes dropped carelessly underneath, and your pant legs rolled up to the knee. Sunglasses on, you're slouching with your head way back, beckoning the sun's rays to your face. So much so you have to tilt your cup of iced coffee to get the straw into your mouth, and the cool drops of condensation fall onto your neck and down your shirt, causing you to spring forward. You tug at the tee-shirt in an attempt to fan your skin dry, but end up just blotting with it. It leaves a spot. I find myself having very impure thoughts about licking the skin underneath clean.
The man you are sitting with laughs at your misfortune though. By your ease with each other and animated conversation I am guessing he is the friend I always heard about so much. I hate him. He gets to have coffee with you and make you laugh. He is the confident to your secrets and desires and not me. And I don’t care what you say; he wants to sleep with you. I can tell by the way he watched you rub your hand across the top of your chest just now.
I need to leave, but I'm afraid the movement will attract your attention. You're bored with whatever he's talking about. I see you wiggling your toes, and twirling your ID badge around your finger. You head leans back once more. The breeze catches your hair. It's shorter than I was in pictures I last saw of you. If I close my eyes I can imagine the scent of your shampoo being cast up my way and I inhale deeply. When I open them I see your face full on, and despite the large sunglasses hiding your eyes, the expression on your face leaves no doubt in my mind you are looking right at me. I've never had a panic attack before in my life but I know this is what one must feel like.
posted by Sabine at 12:42 AM
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