You stare pensively at the bright, white sheet of paper you hold pinched in your fingers.
The doctor placed heavy emphasis on you showing up Thursday at Three Pee Em. It's of the utmost importance that you be here, he said.
You rather believe if it was so fucking important to him, he might have sent a car, which leads you to the only logical conclusion: it's not important to him at all. Must be important to you, but that can't be right; nothing's important to you. Nothing much matters at all.
You twist your fingers firmly and the paper gives way, tearing in a single jagged line down the middle. You drop the newborn paper twins on the concrete stairs in front of you.
Split in two, you thinking. Seems to be a lot of that going around.
You retreat back inside your apartment to be alone with yourself. If you're as important as they say, they'll send for you.
You're not holding your breath.