In the unflattering light of the waiting room, the stranger across from me resembled greatly agitated cauliflower. His face was pale and had puffs in strange places. His head sat atop an uneven pile of lumps. He spoke with the sort of dejected abandon you'd expect out of a vegetable nobody likes.
"All she does is cater to the kid. It's like I'm not even there. It's like, 'Hello! I'm the one going to a shit job to pay for your stay-at-home luxuries!'"
The man seated next to him nodded in fierce agreement. He explained that his wife had also recently given birth and that their alone time had taken a backseat to "nap time" and "that cartoon wetback with the backpack". It was a strange sort of connection they were forming. Appropriate, given why we were all there. The receptionist behind the glass called another name up to the window for clarification on a change of insurance. The men across from me were the only men in the room. We were all quite normal, if you just sort of glanced at us. All except Mr. Yeasty, of course. It could have easily been a waiting room for back problems. Or foot itches. Or unhealthy adherence to booze.
"So I took this girl from work out, smokin' hot, my God, man, you'd swear she was sixteen...I take her out and we have a good time. I think, shit, if she keeps that up, I might not need this fuckin' place."
They share a laugh and I feel an incredible urge to shove cauliflower's dick, hard from telling his riveting story, into You-Got-That-Right's ass. I lean on my armrest and ignore my better judgments.
"Excuse me, sirs. I don't mean to get into your business or trivialize why you're both here, but I feel it's only fair to tell you that nothing you two say, think or feel means anything at all. I mean, in the big scheme of things that matter - black holes and puppies and shit - nothing either of you think you deserve means anything more than the drool used to propel those thoughts into the wind."
Cauliflower straightened up in his chair,
"Who the fuck asked you?"
"You're not potatoes, sirs. You'll never be potatoes. When your wives are experiencing things most would categorize as being 'small potatoes', you will sit unevenly and in envy of the smallness of those potatoes. You will spend the rest of your misshapen lives wishing like hell you were even the smallest potato. But you're not. You never will be. I understand fully why you two are here."
You-Got-That-Right started to chime in, but the receptionist called him up to the window before he could think of something stupid to say. Cauliflower followed suit and changed seats to be closer to the window. I wasn't sure why he hadn't chosen to sit there in the first place; the receptionist was pretty. Heck. You could almost swear she was sixteen.