You feel the crisp cold air tickle your forehead as you approach the old church on Sycamore Avenue. There’s a line of people waiting. You step behind them. You tap your foot, crack your knuckles, anxiously anticipating what’s to come. Time passes so slowly. The butterflies seem to flutter around more and more as you fantasize about last time when they told you they might call in 15…they never did.
Finally, you’ve made it inside. The sweet smell of old wood penetrates the air. You walk over to the desk to swipe your card. The floor lets out a small moan with each step you take. You fill out the paper as fast as you can. It doesn’t feel fast enough. But before you know it, you’re in the black plastic fold out chair. There are people around but they fade into the background. The time has come.
You pull down your mask slightly, revealing your blushed cheeks. The swab inches closer and closer to your nostril. Your breaths get shallower and shallower until finally, something happens. The swab, the beautiful, pearly white, ethereal, gentle piece of plastic has entered your face. You stop breathing for a moment. It’s inside you. And just as quickly as it started, it’s over. You get up from the chair and the entire world feels hazy. For the next two hours, you relish that feeling. As if the swab is still with you. Still in you. Until next time.
