Twenty Minutes

His was another name to be bellowed out across the waiting room, 1 of 13 that morning. But his name gave me pause. Ours is a large public clinic; the waiting room is commodious and always full, and the sound of normal conversation goes nowhere, dies quickly. I hollered his name, came from behind the wall, and shook his hand. He almost smiled or almost winced with our handshake and then sought refuge for his hand in a pocket that wasn't there.

“You made it on time,” I observed.

“Yes, I guess. Barely. I try to walk fast when I come here because I know how you are about time, but this heat makes it hard for a body.”

He wore drawstring gym shorts tied just below his ribs, and his socks were pulled up to his knees. His shirt, he showed me pinching it off his chest, was wet. There was an apology somewhere in this gesture or in his tone. I put my hand on his damp back both to reassure him and to move him along to the examining room, the press of time upon us. I told him how I loved to sweat, how it made me feel strong and healthy and alive. He nodded absently, his forehead heavily creased, the corners of his mouth pointing down toward his well-trod shoes, and said nothing. I grew bigger in his reticence and pushed the banter, hoping to find the right combination of words that would turn the tumblers and open a door between us.

He groaned barely but audibly as he sat, begging the question that I obliged: “How's the knees?” His knees bothered him incessantly. He walked miles every day, had for the previous 23 months since his wife of 52 years, Rebecca, died in her …