Waiting

Yellowed magazines covered the coffee table. Rogue red carpet ran from the entrance to to the back offices. Across from him sat the receptionist behind a desk—a man in his late-30s, arms busting out of his sleeves. He tapped his foot against the carpet, making no noise. The plastic chair beneath him shook. The door opened and an electronic doorbell sounded. The receptionist did not move. From behind the door to the back, he could hear footsteps approaching.

No. 183