Henry rolled his chair – he called it his limousine – back through the sliding glass doors. He didn’t have to look down, didn’t have to navigate really, just kept his eyes on the new woman. “Make way for the limousine,” he would often call to orderlies as he wheeled into the dull linoleum and tile lobby. Today though, he was silent. There was a new game afoot, a new story to unravel.
Ignoring Linda’s hen pecking, Henry pulled up to the side of the reception desk. He rested his arm on the low counter and looked over at the new addition. Who was this woman with the sharp, high cheekbones, the delicate, long fingers, the wrinkles like river deltas radiating from the edges of her mouth, the smoldering glow in her dark eyes? She had a strange wildness about her, Henry thought. She must have been a beauty once.
Henry didn’t try to hide his gaze. He wanted her to see him looking, wanted her to notice. This was what made living here tolerable after all. Every week or two, a new one came in. They brought their histories, lifetimes of tears and joy and anger and love and loss and dreams and nightmares. Henry always wanted in.
More often than not though, the intrigue faded quickly. The new charges were riddled with Alzheimer’s or they had stopped caring or they were lost in their own static or they were just plain dull.
She was different. No way to hide it, Henry thought. Before one of the candy striper ladies led her and her daughter away for a tour of the place, she glanced over at Henry. For the briefest of moments their eyes met. There was anger in her gaze, but something else too. Fear, Henry thought. She was scared. - RJ