Compilation

Waiting Room

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The generic digital clock hangs on the pristine white wall. The marble floor is polished and gleaming; mahogany shelves line the walls above beige seats, cluttered with numerous magazines and pamphlets — on cancer, family planning, menstruation, reproduction. On the far side of the room, a small TV broadcasts today's news, the volume set so low the reporter's voice is practically inaudible.

She picks at her cuticles. She bites her lip. She fidgets in her seat, her blue gaze flicking from side to side. And all the while, the clock ticks on and on, one repetitive tick after another. With every tick, her anxiety rises, until all she can hear is the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears. Glancing around at the other women here, she can tell all of them too feel the same, from the apprehension hidden in their eyes to the wariness etched on their features.

A warm hand grips hers, pulling her back from the paranoid thoughts that plague her consciousness. It's okay. I'm okay. There's nothing wrong with me. The calmness she reflects on the outside — carefully-braided brown hair, a neat, tidy blouse and a wrinkle-free pencil skirt — don't reflect the racing thoughts inside her mind. It's okay. I'm okay. My periods have always been irregularly late... this time is no different.

Except for the fact it's two months late this time.

"Mrs. Kimberly?"

It's time. She stands, her stomach tightening; her fingers clutch at her purse so tightly, her knuckles gleam bone-white. She follows the nurse into the exam room — overcome with dread, trepidation knotted into her eyebrows. She emerges entirely different — a woman with a spring in her step, her eyes alight with joy and pure wonder. She grasps the hands of the man beside her and laughs, revelling in his confusion. "Christopher, I'm going to be free of cramps for the next seven months!"