'Waiting Room' by Martha Lane

Staring at scuffed tiles, still stinking of hand gel and sweat and whatever excuse for food they’d hidden under that yellowing plastic cloche, after you’ve looked into her eyes and you only saw clouds where there used to be sun, used to be sapphires, and all those other clichés you tutted at on Sunday evenings when she made you watch rom-coms on your sagging sofa because the two of you could never agree on what colour the new one should be, you spot a copper coin. Scrolling, you realise you aren’t the first to search if wishing wells really work.