I step out of a swirling grey wind into the hospital lift, and two figures step in after me. I catch sight of the almost-blue bags under my eyes in the mirror lining the back of the elevator. Christ, I think.
“These mirrors!” the woman says to me in the mirror. She is shaking her head in a way that makes me think she is trying to fix her hair, but her hands are full of a variety of bottles and takeaway cups that I cannot take in. Her frizzy yellow hair is topped with dark roots. She has more energy than I do.
“They shouldn’t be allowed to put mirrors in hospital lifts,” I say, a beat too late for the conversation to take flight.
We each reach to light up a button in neon orange, three, four, five.
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