ImaginaryRoses

A long line of impatience lies before me. Huffs and puffs of it bridging the gap between bodies and passing along petulance in the guise of good manners. The sea of heads bobs with the boredom of waiting, strains with the search of the front, taps its toes in a tempo of: When's it my turn? When's it my turn? The queue inches slowly closer to the door and the titters and tuts continue. Tempers grow shorter, breaths become sharper, until somebody mutters fuck this and leaves. The chain now one link shorter, we’re wheeled that little bit further along; like items on a supermarket checkout or patients in hospital beds. We’re no l