Boredom

There was nothing he could do, nothing at all. He just sat quietly, besides the few sounds of his impatient breath, and sat still, not including the short taps of his foot now and then on the floor. He leaned diagonally in his chair, back against the cushion and his left elbow was planted on the arm rest. His head was turned towards the lantern next to his face where just over the screen he could see half of the door that led into the white-walled unknown. It remained as still as plastic should be, a great disappointment for him as he hoped eventually it would swing open in a great force of energy and through it his awaited moment would step through in its personified form.  Damn the agitating slacker who was making him wait.
He gave a heave of a sigh, a large invisible cloud of air from his lungs, and turned his head away from the inanimate plastic door. He wouldn’t look at it, he thought. If he didn’t look at it, then he wouldn’t have to think about it. He’d let time slip by faster, as for some odd reason it does when unnoticed like a fish from the hand when one’s attention is drawn away. Instead, he decided to watch the woman across the room at the desk, the woman with graying black hair that was as curly as a poodle and the thickly rimmed glasses that were placed high on the bridge of her white, crooked nose.
The counter covered half of her face, hiding the paperwork that was sure to be spread out upon her desk like a collage, covering every inch of the purple-grey top and probably her keyboard as well. Secretaries received mounds of paperwork, surely. He gaze at her gazing at her handwriting, his left hand moving from the edge of the arm rest to now hold up his tired head. She didn’t look up, nor made any sort of expression change on her face, and in fact was more boring than watching the door that refused to move for him. Again he sighed, hoping the woman would look up from her work to notice him there waiting with restlessness with his tapping foot which had now begun to increase in not only size but speed, like a jack-a-lope in the dusty desert of New Mexico. She was as still as the damn door.
He moaned, a low and gurgling sound from his throat that was a simple combination of “God” and “ugh”, and slid back into the chair until only his back remained on the seat, his head resting upon what had cushioned his back previously. His arms remained resting on the arm rests and his legs lay limply in the air, anchored down by his heels. From the secretary’s desk, had she given in to his implication that he wished to be distinguished, she would have seen his sluggish posture and his eyes glutted by the lack of any enlightening sources of excitement. They stared at her with a frustration beyond that of a music teacher with a deaf violinist, narrow and accusing. His attempt to guilt the secretary to look at him proved as predictable as he had thought, and the woman remained spell-bound to her secret forms.
Just as he was about to damn the woman as well, the door was finally thrust open and a young man was thrown out of it head first, about three or four feet in the air. From behind the doorway, a black-gloved hand could be made out clapping the dirt off and grabbing the doorknob. In one smooth and transporter-like speed, the door was slammed equally hard closed. Finding a new figure to watch, from his slouching position in the chair he saw the young man slowly rise first to his hands and knees, and then to his hands and feet, and finally to his feet alone, standing tall and wispy. He looked at the secretary, waiting to see if she had looked up at his not so graceful plummet to the floor. Nothing.
“Is she dead?” the random fellow asked.
“I don't think so... but she hasn't moved in the last score of hours so I honestly don't know.”