The white walls and long halls give Trent this dizzy feeling. Of course, that could also be
blamed on the alcohol. But, what's the difference?
She volunteers here, helping out the sick and elderly. It's admirable, really. How many people actually take the time to do
so in the busy world today?
He steps into the elevator, disguised in a new pair of sunglasses and an old baseball cap. His clothes are less than spiffy
today. Truly a disguise.
He jabs the button for floor number five and watches the numbers blink as the elevator rises. A sudden jolt and the elevator
doors noisily slide open to the sound of doctors, nurses, and children who refuse to stay in the sitting room.
He steps out cautiously, a family stepping in as he exits. He surveys the hallway, no one really paying him much mind. He
walks, staying close to the walls, peeking in rooms as he passes them. Most of the patients are asleep, the television
blaring over the beeping of machines.
He finds her, suddenly invigorated and excited. He quickly steps back out of view, his back against the wall next to the
door. He breathes a few heavy breaths, trying to regain his composure. He's giddy like kid in a candy store, or more
appropriate for his situation, an alcoholic in a liquor store.
His stomach's in knots. He can't stop smiling. He's whipped without the pussy.
The butterflys flutter by, leaving Trent calmer and more relaxed. He steals glances into the room. She's sitting at the side
of the bed with an elderly woman. They're quiet, watching Seinfeld.
She's dressed modestly: plain white T-shirt, loose-fitting jeans, tennis shoes. Her hair is drawn into a ponytail. He hates
her hair that way. It's long and beautiful and people should see it.
She must be a mind reader; she pulls off her scrunchie, setting it on a nearby tray. The curls cascade down her back.
"Sir, are you okay?"
He returns to his peepshow, but the star is gone. Shit. He didn't see her leave. He was finally going to say something
to her. Fucked that up.
He steps into the room, glancing into the opened bathroom. No one there. He walks to the chair she was seated in, placing a
hand on the back and looking around. She's gone.
The old woman looks up to Trent. "Oh, hi, sweetie," she says. Soft, slow, and full of love.
Trent smiles and picks up the scrunchie that the girl left. He squeezes it and stuffs it into his pocket. He'll put it
somewhere safe when he gets home.
Her hand rests on his, rubbing his knuckles when she laughs. Her laughs grow softer, until she falls asleep. He stands,
watching her rest peacefully. He squeezes her hand tenderly. He'll sleep easier knowing he laughed, even when it wasn't
funny.
Trent suddenly straightens, caught off guard by the doctor. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine."
The doctor's eyes gaze, studying him. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"Are you looking for someone?"
"No..." Trent's gaze pierces into the doctor and he submits, walking away and shaking his head as he look at his
clipboard.
Asshole.
"Hi." he replies.
"Are you here to watch t.v. with me, dear?" she asks. She'll be disappointed if he says no.
"...Yes, I am. I'm Trent." He takes a seat."I guess the girl had to leave. So, I'm going to watch t.v. with you."
"What girl, sweetie?" the woman asks.
Trent shakes his head, sorrow-filled. Poor old woman. She doesn't remember. In five minutes, she won't remember his name.
The woman turns the television up. "I love that Kramer." she laughs shallowly.