“And can you tell me what year it is?”
She was hovering over the foot of the bed, tightly clutching the clipboard in her hands. Her coat was sterile-white and pressed. It blended in with the vacant walls behind her so well that if I let my eyes unfocus, she looked like nothing more than a floating head. Another balloon to accompany the growing colony in the corner.
“2007,” I mumbled, still looking at her head. Her features were loud against the blank space around her—her lips were kept tight and her red lipstick (too red—like she had just sucked a patient’s blood) was perfectly coated, as though it lived there.
Her face was cemented in place, untouched and unresponsive from the years of seeing patients come and go—sometimes in wheelchairs, sometimes in black bags. As she heard my answer, though, I saw a twitch. Her eyes flashed up over the clipboard at me like a librarian giving the warning glare.
I bit my tongue, suddenly very uncomfortable. She looked like she was going to say something for a moment, but then returned to her clipboard.
“What’s the last thing you can remember, Virginia?”
Found this in my Moleskine the other day. It’s ironic because I can’t remember exactly what the story was about. When I try to remember, I picture Virginia as being mute, but that is obviously not the case. So I don’t know what my original intention with this was, but I’m curious.