Dopa-mine

He, Dun, had been waiting for two hours. It was getting late and the streets are thinning darkly, furtively. The nurse stationed near the door, a flabby piece of nerves, suggested coldly, that he is free to go, finish his work if any and come back. Meaning, go fuck yourself. The last patient who went inside, a middle-aged man, was all wrong. Anyone could see that. His face threw up genuine emotions. Just not the kind he ought to be displaying. People were dying. The fifty-something teacher living upstairs, his house owner, a nice guy, collapsed and died, this morning. Right on his porch. The teacher was about to go inside with the day’s newspaper, ready to start his rant about the affairs of the world with his wife, fell flat on his face, like someone (maybe, The One) pulled the plug on his ass. But the last guy who just entered the psychiatrist’s room was glum. He was happy with himself. It was almost a crime, cognisable. Dun wanted to dash out of the clinic, take his bike and be gone. He hesitated. Like most decisions in his life, he hesitated. Maybe it’s for Dun’s own good. The Doctor might give him some medicines to improve his mood. Maybe.