I'm Keeping My Eyes
One hand on the taupe clock is a used cigarette butt printed with “Ask Your Doctor.” Underneath, three receptionists chat, corralled within a glass partition. The sole window in the doctor’s waiting room is them. To tell them apart each woman is branded with a genuine plastic wood-grained name tag. Every other surface is printed with names of pharmaceutical drugs in Pig Latin. A patient stands outside the glass fence. He waits patiently, hence his title. From her enclosure Lexis says, “Let them take everything, I mean, Who cares? But leave me my skin. And my eyes.” Her own are transfixed by a flickering computer screen. It has been minutes since Lexis last blinked. “They can make artificial skin now. It can be grown from your own,” Sharnay offers, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “I want to be waked at my funeral. I want to look like myself in the casket,” replies Lexis. “Take everything else but leave my skin and eyes.” “Me too! Leave both eyes,” bellows Cathi. “Isn’t it funny that
