waiting room shoes

His left leg draped over his right knee so sinuously that the pointy leather toe kissed the well-worn Persian carpet. His narrow black loafers were polished to an impossible shine. Perfectly creased pants; perfectly parted hair. Ramrod posture.

The shoes were so expensively crafted they could have been hand-cobbled by an Italian nun.

His right heel bounced rhythmically, marring otherwise impeccable composure.

Intimidated, I tucked my flip-flopped feet under the uncomfortable wooden bunch. When I dared to sneak a glance at him I saw him looking stonily out the window, lips moving ceaselessly.

A door closed down the hall. Dr. Thornton, I guessed. I rose, ready to escape into the somehow less stifling presence of my psychiatrist.

A woman poked her head into the waiting room. “Mr. Black?” she queried, tilting her head first at me – I supposed because I was standing – and then at the lanky, neatly folded figure behind me. As he inhaled, I could hear the sounds he was making just under his breath: “One thousand four hundred sixty one,” he sucked. He exhaled: “One thousand four hundred sixty two.” He nodded briefly at her, as if to say, Just a moment.

“One thousand four hundred sixty three,” he whispered. “One thousand four hundred sixty four.”

He grimaced. It may have been meant as a smile. He unfolded himself and stood, picking up his equally impeccable briefcase. “One thousand four hundred sixty four,” he repeated to me. His nostrils flared excitedly. “That’s one hundred twenty-two twelves. You have to end on the twelves.”