The Appointment
GLITCH CINEMA Presents,
THE APPOINTMENT
A man has an appointment for his eyes.
He knows he will be late. He has always known he will be late. Lateness is not a failure. Lateness is the body refusing what the mind agreed to.
He makes himself busy. This is the art of delay. Fold a shirt. Check a phone. Open a drawer and forget why.
Now it is 6:30 in the evening.
The clinic is one hour away.
Math says no. The man says maybe. Hope is just math that hasn’t given up yet.
He goes outside. No taxi. No signal. The phone is a brick with a screen. Technology abandons us exactly when we need it. This is the contract we signed without reading.
He calls the clinic.
The lady says no. They cannot do it late. Book next time.
Next time is weeks away.
The eyes will wait. The eyes have been waiting. The eyes have learned patience from years of seeing things they cannot change.
He hangs up.
Night falls.
The next day his friend comes.
His mother shows the friend the house. This is what mothers do. They show. They explain. They narrate the architecture of their love.
The light goes off.
His daughter fixes it.
A child fixing what adults broke. This is the future correcting the past. This happens more than we admit.
The man goes outside.
He sees his brother at a shop giving coupons.
He receives one.
The coupon says nothing. The coupon says everything. Paper promises we fold into wallets and forget.
His phone rings.
A slot is available. 7am. Tomorrow morning.
He hesitates.
7am means waking in darkness. 7am means transport that may not exist. 7am means trusting a world that just yesterday said no.
He says yes.
Why not.
Why not is the only prayer that moves mountains.
Morning comes.
He arrives at the clinic.
Two women stand outside.
Follow us, they say. The clinic is a few minutes walk.
He walks with them. A child walks with them too. The child belongs to someone. The child belongs to no one. Children are borrowed light.
They reach an old building.
They enter.
The child does not close the door behind.
This is important. Open doors let things in. Open doors let things out. The child knows. The child has always known.
They climb the stairs.
The stairs creak. Old clinics remember every foot that climbed them. Old clinics are museums of waiting.
A lady sits at reception.
The man sits.
He looks behind the reception. A clock on the wall. Late again.
Then he sees her.
A statue beside the clock.
Goddess Athena.
Wisdom and war.
The man looks at her.
Athena looks back.
She has been waiting for him. She has been waiting for all of them. The ones who almost didn’t come. The ones who hesitated at 7am. The ones whose phones had no signal. The ones whose eyes needed seeing.
Wisdom is knowing the mind is always late to life. The owl sees in darkness but still waits for dawn.
War is arriving with open eyes. The spear was never the weapon. The seeing was.
The child runs past him.
The door downstairs is still open.
Light pours in.
The same light his daughter fixed.
The same light his mother showed his friend.
The same light his brother gave away in coupons.
Light folded and passed from hand to hand until it reached here.
This old clinic.
This cracked statue.
This appointment for the eyes.
A man has an appointment for his eyes.
He looks at the clock. Late again.
He knew he would be late.
Still he sits here.
Athena nods.
Wisdom.
War.
The door stays open.
The child knew.
The child has always known.
The End That Was Already Seen
