Skin-Scan: Before and After

Frustration flipped in a flash

The rack of phantom magazines is courtesy of Coronaphobia. The only reading materials on offer are pamphlets pertaining to sundry dermatological ailments.

I’ve read them all. Twice. I’d return them whence they came; alas, sanitizer notwithstanding, you touch it; you own it.

I foolishly neglected to bring a book; thus, my irritation increases as I wait, 40 minutes and counting, past my (triple-booked) 11 o’clock appointment. I’m (im)patient three of three; impatient two, already 20 minutes late for class, sits across from me, tapping her foot.

I’m tempted to walk out. But I won’t; I’m conscientious as regards my annual skin screen. (As compensation for being lax as regards sunscreen.)

I shuffle the pamphlets in my lap. The pamphlet pertaining to tattoo removal will suffice as a hint to my daughter. My hope, albeit faint, is that she’ll be inspired to purge the magic mushroom colony on her foot — which sprouted thereupon per inspiration of the magic mushroom of which she’d partaken.

I’ve been scrawling all this on the melanoma pamphlet because it’s the only one which has sufficient white space. I’m reminded of my friend Jim, who died two years ago of melanoma when the lesion on his back metastasized to his brai —

At last! They called my name.

(Time out)

Meantime, it’s nearly noon; I’m stripped down, gowned up, still scribbling, waiting for the doctor.

At last! Here she comes.

(Time out)

At last! Back in the car, profusely apologizing to my son for keeping him waiting an hour and a half.

I’m going to buy us a pizza, extra-cheese, to make up for my delay.

And to celebrate my not having melanoma.