The waiting room tissue box

At elbow height, on the small table between the two chairs nearest the doctor's door, the box waits close enough to reach without standing, which is the point. The box itself is cardboard dressed as something nicer, printed with a pattern of pressed flowers that matches no other object in the room, chosen by whoever orders these things in bulk for reasons that have never been explained to the staff who restock it. Sixty-two sheets is the average count at delivery, though this number is rarely tested to completion; most boxes are replaced still a third full, once the cardboard has softened at the opening from repeated use. The oval slot is cut slightly too small, so the first sheet always resists before it gives, a small friction built into an object meant to arrive quickly when needed. It is refilled on Mondays by a staff member who does not ask which chair used it hardest that week, and does not need to; the table nearest that chair goes through its box first, every time, by a margin the schedule confirms without anyone tracking it on purpose. Whichever chair needs it most, the box is already there, printed flowers and all, a size too small at the slot.

Doreen Fitch