A black woman sits across the room from me. There is also another girl, to my guess probably in her early twenties, waiting to be called, relaxed, reading a magazine to my right. The black woman is wearing sweatpants and a pullover sweatshirt. It’s May and hot out, but the temperature doesn’t seem to bother her. I feel it all over. I can feel the perspiration trickling down my neck. There is a hanging fan in the room, but it doesn’t help. The woman looks at me. You don’t have to do this, I think. The door is across the room; I could walk out, pretend I never came here, and sneak out like a snake, would he see me? I look over to where he is standing. His eyes pierce a hole through me. I look back down.
He doesn’t know what you’re thinking, he doesn’t know. He crosses the room, sits next to me, and touches the back of my neck with a tissue, balls it up in his fist. He doesn’t know.
“It’s going to be 15 minutes” he says. I don’t say anything; I continue looking down at the carpet below my feet. Its multiple colors: blue,