The Waiting Room Play Novels & Stories

Occasionally, I could even overhear influential people threatening the doctors here while I stood by the door. There were all types of different people in this facility. It was quite interesting. Before long, the nurse notified me that I could start preparing for my heart transplant. While I was being wheeled into the operating room, Bruno was desperately searching for me from across the world. Not that I had any idea, of course. When I left the country, I had already changed my number and blocked him.

"Name?" the receptionist asked, barely glancing up from his tablet. "Jack Spencer," I replied, trying to steady my nerves. "Name of the inmate you're visiting?" "Deborah Spencer." The receptionist's fingers danced over the screen, his expression indifferent. I tapped my foot impatiently, glancing around. The waiting area was cold and unwelcoming. The walls were a dull gray, and the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glare, emphasizing the grime and wear of the place. The air was thick with a sense of desperation and hopelessness, as if the building itself had absorbed the sorrow of its occupants.

he said quickly, cutting her off before she could even finish her statement. They went into the clinic together, looking like a regular couple to the ordinary eyes watching. The waiting room was warm, lined with comfortable chairs and board games to keep patients entertained while they waited. Children played in a corner with colorful blocks and toys, while expectant mothers sat with glowing faces and gentle smiles. To her utter shock, Luca didn’t remain stiff or distant.

The follow-up appointment was at two thirty on a Wednesday and Jayda arrived five minutes early, which was her habit for appointments that mattered, and she sat in the waiting room with the specific quality of someone who had learned to use waiting rooms as thinking spaces rather than endurance exercises, the brief forced stillness of them no longer feeling like something to be managed but like something to be used.

I guess that's one of those things I don't understand, and Alice is the same way . The elevator dinged open on the fourth and fifth floor and we followed the woman who guided us into a spacious, luxurious looking waiting room. The entire wall of this room is covered by thick red velvet. I sat down on one of the dark green couches while Nick wheeled the twins' stroller around the room as both looked interested in the interior of the room. Luckily there was no one else in this spacious waiting area.

He went through the doors. I sat down in the nearest plastic chair. I stared at the ceiling. The waiting room had the specific quality of all waiting rooms, which was the quality of a place designed to contain people in a state of suspension, neither here nor there, caught between the thing that had happened and the thing that had not happened yet. Fluorescent lighting. The ambient noise of a building that was busy in other rooms. A television in the corner showing something with the volume low enough to be heard but not followed.

She walked past him and got into the car. Dante stared after her for a moment. Something flickered in his eyes again. Confusion. Maybe doubt. Then he got in the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb. CLEAR VIEW HOSPITAL ~ NEW YORK The waiting room was cold and quiet. Bright white lights hung from the ceiling, making everything feel even more uncomfortable. Vivienne sat on a hard plastic chair, her hands resting in her lap. Dante stood near the window, his back turned toward her. A few minutes later, a doctor walked out. “Mr. Ashworth?”

Reaching at the floor 55 I went towards waiting room.. But as soon as I entered the waiting room my face got pale. The full waiting room is full. Less than 50 women are waiting here. And most importantly they all wore short reveling dress. Almost their all body parts are can see though their so-called dress. And all of them is so beautiful.. I went and sit beside a woman but she looked at me head to toe and gave a disgusting look.. Seeing her expression I looked down ar myself. Do I look so ugly that she gave the the disgusting look..

There are magazines fanned out on a glass table, Vogue, Harper’s, a medical journal no one will ever touch. The seats are white leather, cold against my palm when I sit down. The quiet here is a kind of performance. Phones silenced. Conversations whispered. The tick of the wall clock is a metronome for private anxiety. I look out the window instead. The world outside keeps going — a city in fast-forward, while here, time has decided to crawl. I hate waiting rooms. They feel like emotional limbo, like confession booths for people who can’t stop overthinking. When the nurse finally calls my name, I flinch a little, then catch myself. “Miss Seethal? Dr. Lowe will see you now.”

But when I tried to ask if anyone had any news about him yet, no one did. I returned to Cannon and sat in the seat two spaces away from him. There were three other people sitting in the waiting room: one coughing and hunkered low in his seat, and then a couple. The man-part of the couple looked as if he might topple over and pass out any moment while his wife watched one of the televisions on the wall and knitted what looked like a scarf. I turned back to Cannon who was playing Gardenscapes on his phone. Smiling affectionately, I said, “Wick plays that game.”