The women sitting directly across from me are working their way toward indignant.
Sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, encased in large, parka-like coats, they have melded together in their bus seat, a four-armed, two-headed commuter.
“We was in that waiting room for almost two hours,” complains the one on the left. “You’d think we were in line at Disney.”
The one on the right cackles: Heh, heh, heh. “I know that’s right,” she says.
“It’s not up to me when them kids get sick,” says the one on the left. “If I’d a knowed they was gonna be sick, I’d a made an appointment!”
I look out the window. The streets are rutted, a ridiculous mixture of heavy/wet snow that has been packed to ice and is now threatening local undercarriages and ankles alike.
“Then when we finally do get in to see a doctor? Can’t understand a word he says. What do you think of that?”
“Mm-mm-mm,” says the one on the right. “It ain’t right.”
“No, it ain’t,” says the one on the left. “Every single one of them doctors there is from somewhere else.” The phone in the purse on her lap starts to ring, and she roots through it, padded arms pushing against the woman on her right. “It’s a shame. They could at least give us a doctor that speaks English.”
She presses the phone’s screen, holds it up to her head. “Who dis?” she demands.