In response to the Pinup prompt at Writingthe200.
The waiting room at Thrifty Cosmetic Surgery had the dimensions of a galley kitchen; it looked good until two people needed to share the space. Three of us shifted uncomfortably in our bolted down chairs, doing our best avoid eye contact and knocking each other’s knees while waiting for our bandaged relations to be wheeled out from post-op.
An oversized soft drink machine occupied one of the narrow walls, vying for attention with a display of blinking lights more likely brought on by faulty bulbs or ballasts than by intention of design. Two dollar bills were required to get the dispenser to perform its function of squirting liquid along the side of a paper cup too large to serve its intended purpose.
The walls were lined with autographed centerfolds. Prospective patients apparently took these endorsements as proof of good work. It left me feeling unsettled that my mother chose to trust such an establishment, plopping down two years of savings for a set lifted boobs, convinced that such an enhancement would attract a new husband and allow her to say sayonara to the job at Pete’s Produce where every new shipment of melons and grapefruits reminded her of younger days.