Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I had taken the town bus after school, the cold seats sticking to my winter coat as the driver navigated the gray, slushy streets of Oakhaven.
The sky outside was the color of wet asphalt, heavy with the promise of more snow before nightfall.
I sat in the waiting room of the Oakhaven Family Clinic at ten minutes past two on a cold Tuesday afternoon.
My fingers twirled the silver signet ring on my right pinky, round and round, until the metal grew warm against my skin.
The radiator in the corner clanked and hissed, sending small puffs of dry heat into the small room.
The receptionist, a woman named Mrs. Gable who always wore blue-rimmed reading glasses, sat behind a sliding glass window.
She was typing on a heavy gray machine, each key landing with a sharp, metallic snap that filled the quiet space.
Mrs. Gable stopped typing for a moment, her fingers resting on the keys while she took a slow sip from a white ceramic mug.
On the low table in front of me sat a stack of outdated farming magazines, their covers faded by the sun.
