Every Evening, My Husband Tipped Two Drops From a Small Dark Glass Bottle Into My Tea
The narrow back hallway smelled sharply of rubbing alcohol and wet mop cotton.
I passed two closed exam rooms and a small storage closet filled with cardboard boxes of medical gloves.
Doctor Aris stood behind his grey metal desk, holding a blue clipboard against his stomach.
He tapped his black plastic ballpoint pen against the metal clip, four quick taps in a row.
When I walked into the room, he stepped around me, pushed the heavy oak door shut, and pulled the blinds down over the window.
He turned the brass deadbolt until it clicked into the frame.
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