The Queue At 10:47

Margaret has been watching the fish tank for forty minutes. Three goldfish circle endlessly. The water needs changing.

“…said it was benign but I don’t trust…”

The woman in the purple cardigan shifts her handbag from one knee to the other. She’s been doing this every few minutes. The leather handle has left a red mark on her wrist.

A child drops a wooden block. It rolls under the radiator. His mother doesn’t notice. She’s staring at her phone, thumb scrolling, scrolling.

“Mr Anderson. Room three, please.”

The receptionist’s voice is flat. Nobody moves. Then a man in paint-spattered overalls stands, joints cracking audibly. The door clicks shut behind him. Someone immediately takes his chair.

Margaret counts seven people now. There were seven before.

“…can’t get the smell out, I’ve tried everything…”

An elderly man coughs wetly into a handkerchief. Folds it carefully. Coughs again. The teenager beside him edges his chair away, headphones leaking tinny music.

The clock says 10:47. It said 10:47 when Margaret arrived. She looks at her watch instead. 11:23.

“I brought tuna,” says the woman with the Tupperware. Nobody responds. She peels the lid back anyway. The vinegar smell of sweetcorn and mayonnaise fills the room.

A magazine slides off the pile onto the floor. Woman & Home, April 2019. Nobody picks it up.

“Mrs Belkin. Room three, please.”

The purple cardigan woman stands. Margaret counts again. Still seven people.

The goldfish complete another circuit. The child has found the block. His mother is still scrolling. Someone new is reading a leaflet about shingles, lips moving slightly.

Margaret’s name is Richardson. The alphabet has twenty-six letters. She tries to remember how many names the receptionist has called beginning with A through Q.

The door opens. A blast of cold air. The clock still says 10:47.

“Miss Alison. Room three, please.”