The flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room seemed to amplify the tension that had settled in Elias's chest. He tapped his foot incessantly, the rhythmic thud a counterpoint to the hushed conversations around him. His fingers, clammy, worried at the worn fabric of his jeans. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, a nervous gesture he repeated every few minutes. He needed answers, and the longer he waited, the more his stomach churned. He glanced at the closed door, the one that held the key, or perhaps the final nail, to his life’s current configuration.
A woman with a vibrant scarf covering her head sat down beside him, her movements quick, almost birdlike. She opened a worn book and began to read, but her eyes kept darting up, as if searching for something. He noticed her rapid blinking, the way she kept adjusting her glasses. He recognized the pattern, the familiar restlessness he was trying to suppress within himself.
“They’re taking a while, aren’t they?” she asked, her voice tight, a thin thread of sound. Elias nodded, his throat suddenly dry.
“Yeah,” he managed, the word barely audible. He watched her. She was a mirror.