The Waiting Room Object Show Novels & Stories

counsel added, “if anyone tries to move you into a separate room ‘for privacy,’ you refuse. They don’t get privacy. They get procedure.” I swallowed. “Understood.” The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and air-conditioning—clean, neutral, almost kind. A receptionist looked up and smiled the way people smile when they’re trying to be helpful, not harmful. A few patients sat with their phones out, scrolling. A TV played a daytime segment nobody listened to. Normal. For eight seconds. Then I saw the clipboard.

“I NEED YOU KNOW MORE THAN EVER.” SOFIA. The nurse nods and takes us both in turn. A quick needle. A small vial. She disappears back through the doors with both samples. And then we wait. The waiting room is not full but it is not empty either. There are other people here with their own emergencies, their own terrible waits. A man with his head in his hands in the corner. An older woman telling her rosary beads beside the window. The particular suspended quality of a place where everyone is waiting for news that will change something.

My fingers brushed my cufflink as I walked, shoes echoing against the sleek floor. The waiting room appeared as the wall dissolved into an opening, revealing a space furnished in deliberate minimalism, low leather chairs, a table that seemed carved from obsidian, and a screen alive with shifting constellations of light. The sharp beep of my phone cut through the quiet hum of the waiting room. I glanced at the screen, the name flashing across it enough to soften the tension in my jaw. “Hey, kitten. Bonjour.” Her silence lasted a beat longer than usual, I smirked, leaning back in the chair. So she thought her little French classes were a secret. She should know by now there’s very little I don

She gestured subtly towards the waiting area with a graceful nod. Claire nodded in acknowledgment, her eyes briefly scanning the faces in the room. “Thank you, Julia,” she replied, her voice calm yet tinged with an undercurrent of anticipation. As she turned towards the waiting area, her heart fluttered with a mixture of excitement and curiosity. She took a steadying breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead. The waiting area was tastefully decorated, designed to be both welcoming and serene. Soft, comfortable chairs were arranged around low coffee tables adorned with neatly stacked magazines. Large windows let in natural light, enhancing the space’s tranquil atmosphere.

I sign my name. Return the clipboard to the receptionist. “Perfect.” She files the papers. “Please have a seat. Someone will call you shortly.” I look around the waiting room and see that it has three other people seated. A woman about my age, flipping through a magazine. An older man in a business suit, checking his phone. A younger guy who looks nervous, bouncing his knee. I wonder what packages they’ve booked. What fantasies they’re here to explore. None of us make eye contact.

Still becoming. Still the category seven version. The coming thing. We sat in the waiting room. The specific quality of a waiting room designed to feel less like a waiting room than most waiting rooms managed. Good chairs. Natural light. A plant in the corner. Not the formal kind. The ordinary kind. The kind that grew rather than communicated. Adrian sat beside me. He looked at the plant. "A fern," he said quietly. I looked at it. "Yes," I said. He looked at me.

said William so flatly. "I am in front of VIP room A-4!! Yes well I'll be waiting for you" Tut William's call is ended, he is still watching the two nurses who began to panic with his cynical face.

You learn to live in it, breathe it, measure it against the clock that never seems to move. Kelsey and I had been here for hours. The waiting room was quiet except for the mechanical murmur of vending machines and the faint squeak of rubber soles on the polished linoleum. Through the glass doors, I could see the reflection of fluorescent lights painting pale halos across the floor.

I walk through the front doors of the hospital and see Preston, Anders, Artis, and Camilla all sitting in the waiting room. “About fucking time you showed up.” Camilla huffs under her breath. “I’m going to ignore that comment for the time being, but you watch your mouth.” I growl. She rolls her eyes and I could hear her murmur that she wished she had a cactus to shove up my ass. “What room is Si in?” I ask. “Room 12.” Preston answers, eyes narrowed at me.

Time to remember. She switched off the music and paced across the empty waiting room. Eighteen chairs, upholstered in alternating hues of dusty blue and green, lined the pale blue walls. A framed copy of Monet's Water Lilies hung on one wall in an effort to inject calm serenity into nervous patients. Aya doubted it worked. She was as edgy as ever.