The Waiting Room

All I hear is the tapping of foot like the clicking of a clock on the wall. I look over and it’s a man waiting in line for an interview. With every tap of his foot, a drop of sweat leaves his baldhead. I can see the anxiety in his piercing eyes. They appear blank at first, as he stares across the room, but his eyes don’t even move. It’s as if the words he wants to say are flashing across in front of him and he doesn’t want to miss any one of them. “John Wimbly!” His head turns viciously towards the secretary as if his neck snapped him back into reality. But it wasn’t his turn, so he once again stared off into the distance and released a long sigh that took over his whole body. His chest caved in as the air left it and his muscles seemed to relax. But only for a second and then he was tense again, awaiting his name to be called and muster up the courage to combat this interview.