The Waiting Room Play Novels & Stories

It was strangely quiet in the confined space, so I tried to start a conversation to avoid awkwardness. "How about some music?" A rather melancholic tune started playing right then. 'Oh, can't you see it, baby? 'You've got me going crazy~ 'Wherever you go~ 'Whatever you do~ 'I will be right here waiting for you~' I was a little surprised that the frosty bigwig would be playing such a sentimental love song on loop. "I really didn't peg you for a fan, Mr. Graham."

The traffic outside the window felt distant. Unreal. Memories played through my mind like scenes from an old movie. The seventeen-year-old boy who used to pull me out of class. When Everett came back from a meeting, he found me sitting there. He crossed the room immediately. "What's wrong? What did the lawyer say?" I looked up at him. His eyes were always warm. Steady. Like sunlight in spring. Just looking at him made something inside me relax. "Sawyer's sick. Late-stage stomach cancer. He wants to see me one last time."

The carpet gave way to linoleum and the bland artwork to bare walls as the hospital gave up pretending to be anything other than what it was. The waiting room was fronted by a frosted glass strip giving the illusion of privacy to those within. As he approached the door, he saw Cameron and Heath talking to a red eyed human couple, whilst Rhett fidgeted in the background. There were many other humans in the room, all comforting each other, and everyone looked up at Talen as he entered, their expressions fading from anxious to confused - other than his mates who looked relieved to see him and broke off their conversation to meet him at the door.

He'd yet to finish, but she pushed the door open with malice, wanting to see him panic. However, he remained calm. His eyes were like an unfathomable abyss—she didn't see the slightest flicker of emotion in them. "You need to knock before entering someone's room," Wilson Quill said coldly. He was just a steward, yet his tone carried the dominance that belonged only to someone accustomed to being in a position of power. Ivory raised an eyebrow and mocked, "You should've locked your door if you wanted to do something so shameful. Besides, this is my home. Why should I knock?"

I allowed for myself to drift off into a deep sleep, or into deep thought. The waiting room wreaked of the overuse of alcohol disinfectant. The phones were constantly ringing, and the loud click of the door opening into the lobby brought on an increasing migraine. Melanie jittered her foot uncontrollably and shook from either her nerves or the unreasonable chilliness of the waiting room, "Thanks for inviting me to your doomsday, but you could've at least gave me warning how freakishly cold it is in here." I shrugged my shoulders, "I guess the coldness kills germs."

Layla The waiting room smells like antiseptic and recycled air and everyone in it has decided not to look at anyone else. I find a seat in the corner and put my bag on my lap and check the time. 1:47 PM. Thirteen minutes. I look at the wall across from me and try to think about nothing, which doesn’t work, because my brain has had exactly one destination all day and it isn’t this waiting room. It’s a living room. Tuesday night. Two words landing in my chest and staying there like something I can’t find the edge of. It was just sex.

Set the phone on the counter. Picked up his cold coffee and drank it without expression while Isa's footsteps moved through the ceiling above him and the morning light came through the window and the road outside stayed empty. The waiting room was the kind designed to make you aware of your own heartbeat. White walls. Stiff chairs. A receptionist behind a desk who had the specific energy of someone who had watched a hundred people sit in those chairs and had stopped seeing them as people. A number system. A water dispenser nobody was using because using it meant getting up and drawing attention and everyone in here was trying to take up exactly the right amount of space.

"I'm his partner." She nodded. "Have a seat. The doctor will be out soon." I sat down. The waiting room was cold. White walls. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic. A woman was crying in the corner. An old man was reading a magazine. A child was sleeping on his mother's lap. Normal life. Happening right in front of me. But my world had stopped. My phone buzzed. Maya. How's practice? I stared at the screen. My hands were shaking.

Now he sat in a waiting room that probably cost more than most people's homes, Italian leather chairs, original artwork on the walls, a view of the city that made you feel like a god looking down on mortals. Kenneth adjusted his tie and waited. He was good at waiting. Patience, after all, was how you survived in his line of work. The receptionist, a severe-looking woman in her fifties with the kind of face that suggested she'd heard every lie ever told, glanced up from her computer. "Mr. Adair will see you now," she said crisply. "Conference Room B. Down the hall, third door on your right." Kenneth stood, smoothing down his jacket. "Thank you."

Except for the little hum of activity coming from down the hall, Liam's waiting room is silent. With his arms crossed over his chest, he paces close to the window. Evelyn taps lightly on the armrest while sitting with her legs crossed. Fred leans against the wall, looking at the door and then at his phone. As they all wait for Louisa, tension pervades the air. A sense of relief fills the room as Louisa eventually enters, appearing worn out but neat.