Which Arm?

She looked unapproachable. Maybe it was a defense mechanism against the endless parade of people waiting to be escorted one at a time from the lobby to the blood lab. There were three nurses on duty and, starting to feel a little tired and cranky from fasting, I was hoping for anyone but her.

She appeared from the vestibule, glanced at her clipboard, and called, “Joe.”

I followed her silently into a stale little room furnished only with a padded chair. She swung the folding arm down, locking me in for the world’s most boring rollercoaster.

“Which arm?”

I told her and she pushed up the corresponding sleeve.

Her face changed. A smile appeared. Then she laughed out loud.

“I didn’t know if you were rich or worked outside, but there’s my answer.”

I laughed too.

“I guess rich people don’t have farmer’s tans,” I said.

“Neither do nurses,” she replied.

We kept joking until she had all the blood she needed.

As she walked me back to the lobby, she asked if I had to go to work now.

“Yeah. My boss is an a-hole.”