Issue 18 Responding

Six rows of 10 pastel pink chairs face a set of swinging doors with matching windows like submarine portholes, as if we are audience members, clenching until the doctor bustles on stage from behind the curtain, selects us as Lucky Contestant Number whatever.

Of the 59 empty seats, some old lady chooses to sit directly next to me. Her frenzied entrance into the waiting room snaps me out of my haze. The chain on her fake Fendi makes a loud clank as it slams the seat in front of her. Her head is low, a crimson perm with hair so sparse I can count the liver spots on her scalp. I try not to stare as she performs an exorcism on her nose with a crumpled napkin from her left pocket.

She billows a swift Taiwanese in my direction. I glance sideways, trying to decipher if her mutters are directed into an earpiece or if a relative has appeared beside her but no—it’s just us in the waiting room. 

“Are you talking to me?”