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I looked again at the clock on the waiting room wall, its plain round face yawned back...ten minutes to midnight.
They said the delicate surgery could consume up to ten hours. That deadline passed uneventfully more than forty-five minutes ago. I dragged my attention down to my watch, quickly realized my mistake, and yanked my eyes away before the searing image could permanently burn onto my retinas.
I blew a frustrated sigh into my wringing hands. My left heel tapped out a staccato melody on the faux hardwood floors. Some of the excess energy was a side effect of the mega doses of coffee I'd ingested. An intravenous drip of the stuff would have been more convenient. Fortunately, no visitors remained to be annoyed at my sudden eruption of multiple nervous tics.
Since the time my vigil started early this afternoon, scores of concerned people had come and gone. Most waited in blocks lasting from one to three hours, passing the time chatting, reading, sleeping. For the most part, sitting on my own I was ignored, except for an occasional half-hearted smile or consoling nod. Couldn't blame them. They had their own loved ones to worry about and had no leftover empathy to spare for my drama. The last group had vacated hours ago. Even the frail, white-haired volunteer, who periodically rose from her perch behind the simple reception desk to offer coffee, or genuine but ineffectual encouragement, had long since departed for the day.
I was alone again.
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