Black Loafers
By Gia, age 18, Florida
Sweet Designs Featured Writer
The elderly man perhaps in his mid eighties waited in the hospital lobby for his wife. He used to be a reporter for a widely known newspaper. His wife was a secretary on the twelfth floor of the building he worked in. They had been married a year after he came home from the war. Sixty years later, they lived in the same home on Blueberry Lane. They took morning walks around the block, and at 11 am, they watched The Price is Right, yelling their bets at the TV screen.
He shuffled his arthritic shoes on the linoleum floor, waiting. "Sir, do you want something to drink?" a dark haired nurse asked, her sneakers making no noise. "Water, please," he responded.
His wife was upstairs for a routine checkup. "No need to worry," she said on the drive over, placing her hand on his. She had lung cancer a few years ago, now in remission for two years. He took off his glasses and cleaned them over and over. The elevator door hadn't opened in a while; he wanted to go home and watch The Price is Right.
His water finally came and he nursed it in his left hand. The clicking of the keyboard from behind the front desk resonated in the silent lobby. He wondered where she was; the appointment was taking longer than usual.
All of a sudden nurses started running towards the elevator, hitting the up button over and over. I wonder what is going on, he thought. Scenarios rushed through his mind. Someone was hurt, maybe his wife. His hands, which were all clammy, started to shake. She's okay. I'm not supposed to worry. He wanted to walk towards the elevator and go to the third floor, but he couldn't seem to stand up. The elevator finally opened and a black loafer stepped through the doors.
