The usual oversized hospital gowns, which normally come in heavy, navy blue cotton, are nowhere to be found, and instead I have to make do with these tiny, thin, white, almost see-through things that barely reach down to mid thigh. As I stand around (sitting would be a bit too revealing), waiting to get dosed with radiation again, I have a sudden access of sympathy for woman who wear short skirts, as the vulnerability of being so exposed like this must be excruciating.
I cross my legs and tap my knuckle idly on the wood top of a divider wall that separates the hall from the waiting area, and in doing so I notice the lovely grain of the blond wood, but something about it seems off, to me. I follow it around the width of the board and, sure enough, the grain doesn't match the end, or even the sides of the wood, and the tapping of my knuckle causes the wood to knock hollowly, almost as if the thing were made of plastic, beneath the faux wood veneer.
One year ago today: A Long Day
Two years ago today: A Man in the Kitchen
Three years ago today: Touchdown