I enter the waiting room. The smell of hot cigarettes gets to me. With the door open, I stand still and hesitate to turn around and wait outside, but I decide to stay. Serves me right for always being early. I slowly enter this small, plain room with its light, sober walls. Two people are already waiting, one on a sofa and the other sitting at a round table, a cane resting on the table next to the magazines. I choose to sit at the table, opposite the man with the cane. It briefly gives me the impression that dinner is about to be served, but it’s neither the time nor the place. I wonder which of these two people has dared to smoke in this place, but neither has a cigarette pack or ashtray in front of them. So I give up this vain reflection, and my foggy thoughts evaporate at the same time as my eye is drawn to the “No Smoking Zone” sign, ironically hung on the wall. Strange to have to point it out, I thought, but probably necessary. After a few smoky breaths, I catch sight of Monet’s painting Le pont d’Argenteuil. In the end, this wall isn’t so empty - all I needed was a clearer view.