the Early BirdMature

I’ve always hated waiting rooms: The pastel wall colour, the low backed chairs, old copies of Vogue with the faces graffitied over, dark moustaches over red rose lips.

I think I knew last year’s October issue from cover to cover.

I was early today, so I have made it through three meteorological seasons, or six fashion seasons already.

Voices drone from behind the doctor’s door, two distinct sounds in conversation. Although I can’t make out what they are saying, there is no real need; I have years of experience listening to conversations through doors. One voice was pleading pleasantly, Dr. Jill West. The other was Miranda, worked up and breathing heavy. They grow louder, striking a quick crescendo.

My nose is stuck in December’s Fashion Do’s and Don’ts, but I raise my eyes at the sound of glass breaking. The shattering sounds came from behind the door, in the confessional. Only moments later the door flies open, revealing a dishevelled Miranda, all tears and sobs and flushed cheeks.

I see Dr. West framed behind the door, surrounded by specks of glass. Her hands clutch at a broken picture frame, the photo of her family in her palms: the photo of herself, her son, and her husband.

My eyes fall back to the Do’s and Don’ts, knowing well that my session is delayed. I know what will happen behind those doors, though. Vogue tells me before Dr. West ever does. According to these pages, I’m already a walking disaster.

The End

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