13/398
♫ No Woolgathering Allowed ♫
13/398
I enter the corridor: chairs for those waiting line the walls between the doors, each door topped by a digital display. Every seat is taken. I read 312 on one of the displays, 313 on another, and the third one is just skipping from 311 to 315. I glance at the slip of paper in my hand. 288. I shouldn’t have dawdled! In any case, I’ve obviously missed my call.
I turn around, wanting to go back and draw a new number in the foyer. However, above the door I just used to enter the corridor, there is another display: 314. For a moment, I’m confused. There’s no other exit, and—I look around once more with a searching eye—no ticket machine either. But I’m not giving up that easily.
The 314 above me clicks over to 316. A young man stands up. This is my chance. But when he realizes that I’m trying to squeeze through the doorway with him, he flashes me a disdainful look and blocks the crack in the door until the very last second. He pulls the door shut behind him with deliberate force, fast and hard.
I size up the others waiting there. Most of them are staring into space. Some absentmindedly roll their slips into tight little tubes or fold them up. A few teenagers are in the mix, engrossed in their smartphones or furiously mashing the buttons on a PSP with their thumbs.
A chair opens up. I take a seat, quickly dismissing the idea of stealing someone else’s number. The displays only go up to three digits. Eventually, they’ll hit 999. And then everything will start all over again. I clutch my slip tightly. My time will come.