Five O’clock

A sigh affixed her notion of the afternoon. The drab green walls, the desk preoccupied with loose papers, the light sifting lazily through curtains of faded white—all of it was awfully boring. The lumpy chair beneath her was more melted marshmallow than cushion, and her back ached from the lack of lumbar support. The only things moving were the hands of the clock running circles around each other. They were slow to get to five o’clock, when she could race home for a meal and a smoke, but they’d make it. Clock hands were reliable like that, always right on time.

Words were spoken by that funny little lady across the coffee table. Tick. The woman had such silly problems. Tock. The husband wasn’t interested in her anymore. Five. She should have left the drunk years ago. O’clock.

The session ended, and her time belonged to no one.