The Waiting Room

L’incipit del mio microracconto intitolato The Waiting Room, pubblicato su Fat Cat Magazine.

Peter counted one hundred and twenty-one steps from the entrance to the director’s office. A couple less on sunny days when he was so happy he skipped his way. Those days, custodians would suck through their teeth, then gently clap their hands to set a slower rhythm. But he never paid attention.

    Sometimes he lost count, like today. He walked down the long white corridor. On each side, motivational posters invited the young guests to use their full potential, to make the right choice, be kind.

    When he arrived, Sarah was already in the waiting room. He sat on the bench, next to her.

Soon their feet dangled in unison: right-right, left-left. They played like that for a while. Then

she stopped:

    “Have you made up your mind?” she asked, looking at the folder on his lap. A folder like her

own, except for their names.

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