by R.K. West
The doctor, broad-shouldered with spiky white hair, stands in the room where I perch on a tiny exam table while his young female assistant takes notes. This was once a pediatric clinic, never intended for so many adults; I suspect there is not enough air for all of us.
He asks questions, doubts me, asks again with different words, but my answers remain the same. He sighs when I say I’m exhausted; everyone he sees is exhausted.
He says, “Maybe you need more sleep.”
I say, “I sleep until I can sleep no more.”
At last, he looks at me.
R.K. West is a Canadian-America writer currently living in the Pacific Northwest. rkwest.com
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