Sevenfiftyfive again. There is a perpetual man who moves through the waiting room, he meticulously shifts from one chair to another in a counterclockwise motion, taking only a few seconds in each to sit and then to shift. A sneer upon seating, a grimace upon rising and swiftly darting to the next nearidentical plastic chair propped up in three rows on each wall of the room, first the first rightmost chair and then the next secondtorightmost. This anomaly of behaviour repeats every day, he waits outside sometimes hours before the door to the building has even opened, leaning in close, checking timepiece, breathing heavy, eyes fixed on that firstrightmost chair, wiping the condensation from the glass window, checking timepiece, looking over his shoulder, the door is already open in his mind.
The receptionist has forgotten his persistent existence, its always at the last moment before opening, before turning the hallway corner in plain view of the glass doors that they remember, he's there again. A wave of nausea and frustration hits them hot and shameful, their water evaporates and condenses into cloud, cascades earthward and evaporates again embarrassed. Condenses, evaporates, cascades, sevenfiftysix again... Police won't do anything, won't change the course of course, they don't care for men like him who spiral around waiting rooms, everything is stolen time and again and the businesses official phone number has been blacklisted. No-one wants to hear from them.
It is sevenfiftyseven again and that counterclockwise man is already wiping drops of exhaled breath condensate with the discoloured sleeve of his woollen blazer, he is stepping slowly in place, counting to himself as to practise the number of strides that will carry him forebound to that firstrightmost chair. The receptionist hesitates on the precipice as they do every morning, standing stunned upon realisation just out of view for a few moments, maybe today. They hear his breathing through the door, hear his sliding feet, hear his slippery sleeve on the window, hear the impending disturbance as the counterclockwise man - this perpetualid, this regression man, sevenfiftyeight again, this skip-to-the-ender, this waiter unending - bolts forth wearing down the carpet, wearing down the chairs and bowing their legs and keeps the same timing, the same pace like a heart in its prime, wearing down the air, wearing down the receptionist. They can't take another second of this let alone another day or another week, another year, not one more second, when can this come to an end?
The receptionist peers leftwardly round the corner, it's sevenfiftynine again, a look to the right, chairs in various states of disrepair, some have been replaced while others hang on supported solely by a spindle of plastic, strained, stained from overuse. They breach doorward and steadily make their way on downtrodden flooring past the decayed plant in the hall, averting the gaze beaming through the glass, each foot placement a reminder of attrition. Breath intensifies, eye contact is avoided, hearts quicken and blood pressure spikes. The key in a pocket, a hand in that pocket, that key in a hand, an arm stretcheth outward, beams from a lighthouse, feet are swollen in their shoes, that arm hovering lockward, ships in the night, a key in a lock, an ocean in the drop, a keyturn, slide, click - the lock cylinder with added friction due to the additional pressure on the strikeplate - he is pushing on the door now, breathing ceases entirely.
The door swings open, a maddening cacophonous series strides on flaking loafers dodging swaths of untouched carpet into preestablished divots, years of wear, vapordrops airborne.
The counterclockwise man barrels down the hall unblinking, his final step halting just short of the prize. Down he goes into his chair, eight again on the dot as the first of seven thousand sneers creeps on to his face, a few seconds pass and the first of seven thousand grimaces overrides his facade and he swiftly lifts himself into the secondtorightmost chair. The receptionist stands beside themselves doorside, staring blankly at the top rung of the stone stair ladder just outside, the stone where the man was practising his stride has been exfoliated, bowing ever so slightly. From behind them they hear the counterclockwise man shifting again and muttering to himself into his lapels, the next one, I'm only ever interested in the next one, only ever interested by the next one, the next one. Exhaled breath condensate flecks the ground as they both explode inward again evaporated, condensed, cascading...