What you see when you're stuck

The tile

had a water stain

that looked like a face

if you stared at it long enough,

which I did,

because there was nothing else

to do.

An hour.

My phone in my bag.

The magazines

dated 2019.

The receptionist

typing something

that didn't require

her to acknowledge

I was still waiting.

The face

in the stain

had eyes,

or what could be eyes

if you wanted them to be,

and a mouth

that might have been

screaming

or smiling.

I couldn't tell.

I tried to look away.

Couldn't.

There's something

about a waiting room

that makes you stare

at the wrong things—

not the exits,

not the clock,

but the small imperfections,

the water damage,

the scuff marks,

the evidence

that this room

had been here

longer than you,

and would be here

longer than you,

and had seen

a hundred people

like you

stare up at

this same tile

and see

something that wasn't

there.

My car was ready.

The receptionist called my name.

I looked up

one more time,

and the face

was gone.

Just a stain again.

Just a tile.

Just proof

that I'd spent

an hour

looking for meaning

in the ceiling.