The smoking area outside the county hospital is just a concrete slab with a bench. I sat there last Friday, waiting for a test result I already knew.
In my pocket was a paint swatch fan from the hardware store. One color circled—a soft green called 'First Breath.' I'd picked it for a nursery, thirty years ago.
She was a substitute teacher, sweet and patient. We tried for three years. Each month a little more silence.
She left in the end. Not angry, just finished. I couldn't blame her.
The hospital doors slid open and a young woman stepped out, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other. Her eyes were red.
I nodded, she nodded. That's all you do in the smoking area at a hospital.
My test was fine. But I sat there another ten minutes, folding the paint swatch into smaller and smaller squares until I couldn't see the green anymore.
Then I went back inside to pay the parking, and drove home along the river.