The receptionist at the hospital is doing her best, since the automatic check-in machines that dot the airy, two-story, white stone lobby seem not to be working, and while the line is pretty long, it’s moving at a good clip.
When I finally get to the front at her enormous desk, she, all professional, asks the usual, name, date of birth, phone, but after a moment, her bored countenance shifts and she looks up at me apologetically.
“Your appointment is for... July seventeenth,” she says, hesitantly, as if expecting me to blow up at her.
A beat, then I give her a smile and say, “Ah, well I guess you just freed up my morning, didn’t you?"
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