Of Pleather Chairs (The Sequel)

This time it was a couch, the back of which was comfortable enough to rest my head upon while staring at the ceiling with the intention of counting the tiles though I never got around to it. Enough space between wall and couch to place the book I had planned to read (Rushdie’s TWO YEARS EIGHT MONTHS AND TWENTY-EIGHT NIGHTS) but never did simply for a lack of trying, the necessity of conversation, the aforementioned intention to count ceiling tiles, and a general pervasive anxiety punctuated only by the sound of hand sanitizer dispensensation emanating from sources unknown along the endless fluorescent sterilization of a hallway lined with monitors demonstrating the color-coded heartbeats of faceless denizens.

(TW)