She sits quietly in the waiting room, one hand on her lap, and the other carefully flattening a stray lock of hair in place. She left too soon, and was only able to half-mindedly put her hair up in a pony tail while in the taxi. The rain outside was pouring; droplets stuck to the glass like the bubbles in tea, right after the honey was stirred in. Her hair was wet.

A nurse gives her a chart with an empty form for her to fill up. The silence in the hall was filled with whirs from the air conditioner, heel-clicking from the nurse's shoes, and the subtle chiming thud of metal hitting metal. She starts filling up every blank, and slowly, the white spaces between lines disappear, as the silence in the hall becomes drowned out by the friction of pen on paper. Someone calls her name.

She enters a much smaller room and sits down. The woman is young, in her 30s. Her face is pristine, save for a mole just below her right eye. Her lips are a subdued shade of red, like she had put on a darker rouge earlier in the morning, and as the day wore off, unconsciously licked it off. Her hair was blunt, with each strand resting slightly on her relaxed shoulders. They exchange a few pleasantries, before the scheduled conversation.

Just above the woman's chair is a clock with green leaves for hands. The time, 2:37pm. The sound of a car beeping its horn could be heard through the window to her left, followed by the sound of speeding and screeching. It had started drizzling again.

She looks down at her hands; they were wet. She wipes them on her jeans, noticing how the faded grey now had dark patches covering her thigh. Her hair was dry.