Only Being Polite
(The first-aid room at a paint factory outside Rotterdam. Two chairs, a sink, a blue box on the wall.)
Obiora: I only came down because someone on my line said I looked gray. It seemed rude to say no.
Ingrid: Sit. Arm out.
Obiora: This isn’t a medical thing. I don’t need care, I need lunch.
Ingrid: Mm-hm. Any pain?
Obiora: A headache. Small one.
Ingrid: Stomach?
Obiora: Since Friday, a bit. It’s likely the flu. Everyone’s got it.
Ingrid: It’s Tuesday.
Obiora: I know what day it is.
(Ingrid checks his temperature.)
Ingrid: Thirty-six eight. Normal.
Obiora: Good. Then I’ll go back up. Does this involve a form?
Ingrid: One line in a book. Nobody reads it.
Obiora: Because I don’t want a fuss. I came down to be polite.
Ingrid: You said.
Obiora: My father had a headache like this in March.
(Ingrid writes one line in the book and closes it.)
Ingrid: The company pays me to sit in this room till five. You’re my second patient this week.
Obiora: Was the first one polite too?
Ingrid: He waited four days as well.
Obiora: And?
Ingrid: And he’s fine. One tip. You’re welcome down here on the Friday, not the Tuesday.