Waiting Room

by Brian Davidson

As I watched the young couple expecting help, the man said he was sorry. His lips hadn't left her scalp, even when he spoke, and he spoke rarely, only to say sorry. The man's arms cradled the woman's head, pinning her ponytail to the top her back, which expanded and contracted below his arms. The woman's arms were tucked under the man's shoulders, and her fingers crawled about the fabric on his back. "I'm sorry baby," the man sighed into her ear, lifting his face from her head to prop his chin atop her bangs. The woman's face stayed stuck to his heart, and her feet were pressed into the rug beneath the overhang of his chin so that nothing could fit in the space that was between them.


Brian Davidson, born thousands of years late, is a nomadic hunter and gatherer who carves stories into cave walls, occasionally etching one onto paper.

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