two official looking men came around the corner, wearing white coats and those black hospital shoes that doctors wear. they were looking worried, and discussing private things in low, grim voices.
unfortunately, i was the only other person there, and the sound of their soft-soled hospital shoes on the tile didn't quite drown out the sound of their voices.
"she's not going to get better," stated the shorter of the two men, the one wearing thick, dark-rimmed glasses.
his friend nodded, his mouth a straight, morose line just below his just-as-depressing mustache.
i tried not to look like i was listening, all the while wondering whose dire medical condition these men were discussing. she's not going to get better. how sad.
my hug instinct kicked in [when i hear something sad, i get this overwhelming urge to hug someone. most preferably the person who is sad, but if they're not available, i'll hug someone else. i'm a girl, it's what we do], but there was no one to hug except these two middle aged men, so i just sat there like a bump on a log, feeling sorry for Sick Mystery Woman.
there was a thick silence in the room. then, the man with the glasses spoke again:
"she...she just keeps falling on the chart... as she's gotten older; i'm trying not to notice, but..."
"mmhm," interjected man #2.
"and i'm not saying she's not attractive anymore at all, but--"
"i know what you mean."
"--yeah. just not gettin any prettier."