At one end of the waiting room there is a deep red, velvet curtain, open an inch to allow a stifled breath of hope - no more - to enter the window. Three other clients are reading magazines head down, mustering their courage. The nearest, I notice, is fingering the contents of a Mensa magazine, no doubt wondering whether coming here was a smart move. The room is thick with fear and some guilt - all those sticky sweets as a child, the loss of adult willpower when faced with decisions about chocolate.
But it gets worse, of course. The receptionist enters the room. We all try to avoid her eye. She takes her time. Taking pleasure in the moment, tasting it on her lips and tongue. Thin smile. 'Mr. Cain!' In unison, my companions sigh with relief. The crazy notion I had of a last-minute reprieve entirely misplaced.
The stairs are long but a fiercely bright light from an opening surgery door blinds me as I approach the landing. The silhouetted shape of the dentist stands waiting, a dazzling halo of brilliance plays with his distorted outline. One thing is certain: beyond his shoulders there is the suggestion of wings. Angel wings? Dragon wings? A few more steps and I will know for sure. At the last moment, before entering, I spot something else. Something in his hand, or maybe part of his hand, growing out of his hand. He tries to hide it, to act nonchalant, but when I hold out my own hand in greeting, he peers suspiciously at me and turns away.
'Sit down, Mr. Cain.'
No comments:
Post a Comment