Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights of the clinic hummed, a relentless annoyance that echoed the buzz in Beatrice's head. Another pointless doctor’s appointment. Another waste of a perfectly good Tuesday. She tapped her foot impatiently, the cheap vinyl of the waiting room floor offering no comfort.

He sat across from her, fiddling with a pen, his eyes avoiding hers. Probably another hypochondriac, she thought, judging his pale complexion and nervous energy. Beatrice had seen it all. She'd developed an almost instinctive dislike for anyone who dared to complain about their health. She had real problems, problems that actually mattered.

"Eleanor?" a nurse called. Beatrice stiffened, expecting her name to be next. Instead, the woman pointed at the man across the room. “You’re up, Mr. Harding.”

Mr. Harding. The name was unremarkable, the man even more so. As he rose, he dropped his pen. Beatrice watched it roll, barely acknowledging it. Let him pick it up himself. She'd learned that people were always looking for pity.