She sits in the grey-brown room, staring at steady drip of the faucet and listening to the tinny sounds of shutting doors and professional voices and Barry Manilow. The patient seat has clamps on the ends with fuzzy striped socks and it reminds her of the summer, lying prone under a blue sheet while a woman whose face she can't remember pushed a clamp into her and she tried not to cry. She doesn't particularly want to cry right now, but she's only been to a doctor's office three times in her life without her mother (and this is the third) and she's never really needed it before but just now she wishes she could hold her mother's hand. There's a white trash can in the room and it looks exactly like the one at home.
