One man has fallen arches. The shoes he wears are comfortable and the antithesis of stylish. He has a gut on his front and a hunch on his back. His hair is disappearing in halos. He is here because he gets shooting pains up and down his back whenever he walks to and from work. This little wait for the doctor seems to an outside observer to be the most enjoyable thing he has experienced in years: he is seated, he is supported, he is smiling.

There is a lady in a torn purple dress. She is here because she has worn heels too long. She clutches her purse like a wild animal clutching prey. She is pacing, up the room, shifting her weight, down the room. She is not a pretty woman, but she has a face like a cliff, which is intriguing. She looks weathered, forged by time and rain. Her frown, her roman nose, her moles and her glare all seem etched in by the elements.

The boy is two years old and would be running around his mother's legs if half his left foot weren't missing. He is chewing on a cloth book and staring at the toes that aren't there. It is how he passes time until the doctor calls his mother and he hobbles in behind her, one tiny hand reaching up to grasp her pinky.

You cannot see these people from outside. From outside, you can barely see that this is a podiatry clinic. Still, it is a favorite place to watch humans. All these people are the same: only the faces and ages and sexes are different.

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