The Waiting Room

Three strangers. Ten minutes. What do you see — and what are you missing.

You’re sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. Nothing remarkable. Plastic chairs, an old magazine, silence broken only by the air conditioning.

Three people. None of them have said a word to you. And yet each of them — right now — is saying more than they realise.

◇ ——— ◇ ——— ◇

Person A: A woman in her mid-40s. Business attire — navy blazer, pressed slacks. Her shoes are expensive, but the heels show significant wear on the outside edges. She’s reading a financial newspaper but hasn’t turned the page in seven minutes. Her phone has buzzed four times. She hasn’t looked at it once. There’s a small bandage on her left index finger.

Person B: A young man, early 20s. Athletic wear, running shoes — genuinely worn, not fashion. He’s bouncing his right leg rapidly and checking his watch every thirty seconds. There’s a university lanyard around his neck. He keeps touching his right shoulder, wincing slightly. A faint grass stain on his left knee.

Person C: An older gentleman, late 60s. A well-worn tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He’s doing a crossword in ink — not pencil. His left hand trembles slightly, but his handwriting is controlled and precise. He has a walking cane, but hasn’t used it — it’s leaning against the wall, slightly out of reach. A paperback in Russian sits on the seat beside him.

· · · ◈ · · ·

If you're reading this without having written anything down — you already know what that means.

Person A

She's not reading. Same page for seven minutes — the newspaper is something to hold, not process. Four unanswered buzzes point to deliberate avoidance, not a dead battery. The heel wear on the outside edges tells you she walks a lot, likely commuting on foot. She knows exactly why she's here. She just hasn't decided how she feels about it yet.

Person B

University lanyard. Genuinely worn running shoes — not fashion. Grass stain on the left knee from a fall or a tackle. And he keeps touching his right shoulder, wincing each time he forgets not to. That's the injury. The impatience — watch every thirty seconds, bouncing leg — isn't anxiety. He has practice, or class, or both. This appointment is cutting into something that matters more to him.

Person C

Crossword in ink. Not pencil. He doesn't entertain the possibility of being wrong. His left hand trembles, but his handwriting is precise and controlled — which means the tremor isn't new. He's adapted. That takes months, sometimes years. The cane is leaning against the wall, slightly out of reach. He put it there on purpose. He's not ready to need it in front of strangers. The Russian paperback, the tweed, the elbow patches — almost certainly a retired academic. A man for whom discipline is not a strategy. It's just how he's built.