The bus drops us on the other side of the street from our destination. The absence of a crosswalk makes crossing over an act of accuracy requiring an island rest.
Inside the building silently sits a secretary. She acknowledges nobody, while above her pass scrub dressed college girls.
Another threshold brings us to the primary waiting room. Five terminals harness three girls. They call out to patients whom they can’t see. There is a boy in line before us. He wants an HIV test. They give him laminated colored papers to read. The woman before him has questions about what to do with the thing inside of her. She almost misses her exam due to a poorly timed smoke break.
Musette has an appointment. She scheduled it over a week ago. Last time we came she didn’t have one. We waited over six hours for her to undergo a ten minute procedure.
She asks the receptionist how long we should expect to wait this time.
“We are kind of busy.” responds the receptionist. “But it shouldn’t be too long.”
We end up waiting for over an hour. The short haired shorty who finally retrieves Musette does so with dilated pupils, ready to retaliate against any expected complaints.
I remain in the waiting room. Silence concocted with terrible Sprint reception provides a beneficial atmosphere for examination. Being the only one blessed with this curse, as no one else lifts his eyes from her phone, I solely perceive the indigo generation: split in half, with one part of our souls deathlocked here, in this waiting room, while the other half cultures in a binary petri dish of our dreams. An age of suffering of sight through tiny boxes, replaced tongues for thumbs, and diaphragm plugged ears: a headlong attempt at denying the impermanent cursor. Here we are, wrapped up in a maddening scheme against nature, wielding surgical clamps and tri-monthly hormone overdoses, while Lucifer, God of Earth, retaliates his slithering gripe through the conversations of nurses who should be better serving the fluidity of their organization.
When Musette returns she tells me that the doctor recommended an IUD, which is a small ‘T-shaped’ device inserted into the uterus which can prevent pregnancy for up to twelve years.
“She said that continuing to receive DMPA may thin my bones away.”
I tell her that if it delays our returning here, then I am all for it.
