I had come up the elevator to the third floor. The office was newly remodeled and had fresh paintings on the walls. A collage of pictures, of all the twelve or so doctors that work there, greets every guest as the doors slide open to a large foyer. It led into a large reception area with windows covering the whole west wall. I see Horsetooth and Grey Rock. I can point to the exact crevice in the hills where my house is found.
There were not one, but four receptionists. I went to the one on the farthest left. She had the best smile. There seemed to be a problem with my health insurance and I wanted to talk to someone in person. I opened my packet of papers and started looking for my bill.
“I have a new address,” I said as I handed her the paper. “Let me write it down for you.” I grabbed at a different piece of paper, one that did not look too important, and jotted down my new address. Thank god, I thought, that I found a great place to live in such a hurry. And cheap, too. These medical bills are piling up.
“You have ink all over your hands,” said the receptionist, “Here’s a tissue.”
I looked down to see that it was not only all over my hands, but also on my new belt, my jeans, and it was making it’s way onto one of my favorite shirts. I couldn’t do or touch anything safely.
I paused for a minute and looked out the window. I had just been thinking how easy this whole thing was and now I wondered when it was going to get hard. Maybe now?