Cameron sits in the lobby of the hospital. It’s called the atrium and appropriately so. It must be three stories tall and just as wide. The walls are covered in glass from floor to ceiling. It’s around one in the afternoon and the sun is shining brightly. The space is illuminated.
He’s on a bench. He wants to read while he waits. Cancer treatment sucks, and it’s boring. They say his wife will be OK, but nothing has given him reason to believe them. He’s not sure how many more treatments will be left. He will miss this atrium.
A woman on a cell phone sits down next to him. He can hear her conversation. Most of the people within 25 feet can probably hear it.
“So I fucking told her that she needed to get the motherfucker out,” she says.
Cameron sits quietly, he does not move, but he listens.
“Right? I was like fuck him and fuck her and fuck you,” the woman continues.
“All these fuckers think they can,” she pauses, clearly listening to a response. “No, I said I’m gonna punch her in her fucking face.”
At this, Cameron turns his head. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” he says to the woman.
“What,” the woman turns.
“I said, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Cameron replies.
“What’s not good idea?”
“Punching a woman in the face. First, it’s going to hurt your knuckles. If you really want to hurt her, you should elbow her in the throat. That way, your hands don’t show damage and she doesn’t need to explain away a bruise. You both win, in a way.”
The woman just stares at him.
“Of course, if she come back at you, you might need to change your tactic. Maybe step aside and kick her in the knee. She’ll need to get it treated, but there’s a lot of ways to explain it away.”
The woman stands up and walks away. She takes one last look over her shoulder, and then continues her conversation on the phone.
“So, some asshole couldn’t mind his own business,” she says.
He watches her turn the corner.
Quiet, again, he thinks. He looks back to his book, smiles.