A Latino child with a buzz cut coughed. He was wearing torn jeans and no shirt, and I wasn't sure if he was here for the dry rattling sound issuing from his throat or for the black eye and bruised cheek and torso. Probably both. He grimaced and I looked away.

“His name is Miguel,” the woman beside me suddenly spoke.

“Excuse me?” I asked, embarrassed at having been caught staring.

“The little boy's name is Miguel,” she said again, “He's in here every couple weeks or so. His mom works two jobs. His dad drinks.”

I had wondered why he was all alone. “How do you know?” I asked, “Are you here that often?”

She nodded and pulled her feet up onto the plastic chair, tucking her knees beneath her chin, “I'm a hypochondriac.”

“Oh,” I nodded as though she had just told me she was wearing jeans. 'Well, of course. I can see that.'

“Last week I had an STD,” she explained to me, “Because I sleep with so many men. Do you want to sleep with me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want to fuck me?” she looked at me calmly as though it were the most natural question in the world.

“Are you a prostitute?” I whispered. I didn't know if I was embarrassed for myself or on her behalf.

She giggled, and the sound made her look ten years younger. She must have been in her early forties, based on the lines creasing the sides of her mouth and edges of her eyes. I could see the graying roots beneath her yellow-blond hair, the tips reaching past her shoulder blades. She needed another dye job.

She sat there, looking serene and staring at the television fixed on a Spanish soap opera.

“Are you just going to sit there?” I asked. I was upset that she had just asked me such a remarkable question and then refused to answer my own. I felt my heartbeat quicken and I saw a drop of blood.

“I'm sorry,” she turned her attention back to me, “Was there something you needed?”

“You asked me if I wanted to...sleep with you, and I asked you if you did that for a living.” I could almost imagine that we were having a civilized conversation.

“I did?” she looked confused. She glanced down at her shoes, as though Converse held all the answers in the universe. “I'm sorry,” she finally said, smiling a little, “I'm afraid that I suffer from Amnesia.”

I turned away from her, glancing at the television, trying to remember bits and pieces from my high school Spanish class.

“Decir la verdad, Maria,” the man on the T.V. said. There was always a Maria.

The woman didn't seem to mind that I had turned away from her. She rested her cheek against her upraised knees, closing her eyes with a small sigh of contentment.

I couldn't help but look at her every so often, somehow managing to feel both disdain and admiration for a woman who could look so damn comfortable in such a place. I couldn't understand how she lived. Did she have family that took care of her, or was she a burden of the state? Did she somehow manage a semblance of sanity long enough to earn a living? Or was it possible that she lived here, and was so sick because she was unable to go anywhere else?

My musings were interrupted by another harsh cough from the Latino boy—Miguel.

“His name is Miguel,” I heard her say, her cheek still resting against her knees.

“I know,” I said, “You already told me that.”

“Did I?” she sounded amused. She lifted her head and placed her feet back onto the floor, stretching her arms above her head so that her shirt rode up to reveal part of her stomach. “I say a lot of things,” she continued, “Some of it is relevant and some of it is nonsense. Did I say anything else?”

“You said you were a hypochondriac,” I replied. My towel was soaking through—I hoped they would hurry.

The woman laughed softly, “Did I really? Ha, what a load of shit.”

Having learned not to let her bother me, I nodded.

“Did you believe me?” she asked.

“I would have no reason not to,” I said, shrugging, “Besides, what does it matter to me whether you're a hypochondriac or not? As long as you don't infect me, I'm not especially worried.”

It was her turn to look at me strangely. She squinted at me, as though trying to read tiny letters written across my forehead. If there were such letters, I imagined they would spell a word I wouldn't understand, and would need to look up when I got home. There were a lot of words like that. She giggled then. “I suppose I already did,” she smiled at me, and it was a radiant smile. It distracted me for a moment, until her words sunk in.

“Excuse me?”

“I'm not trying to insinuate that you're a hypochondriac,” she said, physically waving the idea away, “But you have to admit that you're different now, different from the way you were before you came here.”

“I don't--” I began to reply, but paused. It may have been a small, insignificant difference but I couldn't really deny that I wasn't the same person as when I had entered this room. “I suppose you're right,” I shrugged as though the thought didn't bother me, even though it was very disconcerting.

“Environment has a lot of power,” she said, “So do the people around us. What they do, what they say—we take it all in and incorporate it into ourselves. Our personalities, and that essential part that we consider us is constantly in flux. It's silly to think that you could come here, be surrounded by so many different kinds of people, and not to be effected in some way.”

“I suppose you're right,” I said.

She glanced at me, then turned her attention straight ahead. “Are you ever going to disagree with me?”

“I don't think I have a reason to,” I responded, “After tonight I'll never see you again, and I may as well listen to what you have to say and consider it. If I find it to be asinine tomorrow or the next day, or a year after that, I can always disregard it. For now, I'd rather listen to your philosophy than to argue about it with you.”

I looked at her again, and she was still staring straight ahead.

“You're a strange guy,” she finally said, smiling a little, “And I'm really glad I met you.”

I smiled back for the first time that evening. “Yeah, me too.”

They called a name I couldn't quite understand and she stood.

“I only wish I would remember you tomorrow,” and she walked away.