The waiting room carried a gentle blend of antiseptic and peppermint tea, a calm and quiet space where the passage of time felt intentionally slowed. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, resting softly on the polished floor. Three elderly gentlemen sat side by side, their winter coats folded carefully across their knees, their canes positioned upright like trusted companions standing guard. There was an unspoken sense of dignity among them, shaped by years of shared experiences and quiet understanding.
Dr. Halpern stood nearby, scanning his clipboard before lifting his eyes with a warm, reassuring smile. This appointment was not meant to cause anxiety or concern. It was a routine memory assessment, a simple exercise intended to ensure that the mind was aging with the same patience as the body. Nothing more than a conversation, a few questions, and a bit of observation.
The first man in line, Mr. Arthur, straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. Pride still lived comfortably in his posture. He had always believed his mind remained sharp, and he was eager to demonstrate that belief. His eyes followed the doctor attentively, waiting for the question that would prove his readiness.
Dr. Halpern spoke gently. “Arthur, what is three times three?”
Arthur’s eyebrows drew together as he considered the question. His lips moved silently, forming shapes as though the numbers were drifting through the air and refusing to settle. Several seconds passed. The room remained quiet, filled only with the distant hum of the building. Then Arthur’s face brightened.
“Two hundred and seventy-four,” he announced, his voice steady and confident.
The doctor paused, lifted an eyebrow, and nodded with polite encouragement while making a small note on the clipboard. Arthur leaned back in his chair, clearly satisfied, wearing the expression of someone who had completed a task successfully.
Next was Mr. Bernard. He leaned forward, resting both hands on the curved handle of his cane. A playful glimmer appeared in his eyes as he looked at the doctor, offering a knowing wink, as though the two of them shared a private joke.
Dr. Halpern repeated the same question.
Bernard did not hesitate. With a cheerful tone, he replied, “Tuesday.”
The word floated gently through the room, unexpected yet strangely charming. The doctor pressed his lips together, writing another note while maintaining his composure. Bernard chuckled quietly, pleased with himself, his shoulders shaking slightly with amusement.
Finally, Mr. Clarence’s turn arrived. Throughout the exchange, he had remained observant, his hands folded neatly, his expression calm. His eyes sparkled with subtle amusement as he listened to the answers given before him.
When the doctor asked the question once more, Clarence paused briefly, as if giving the matter respectful consideration.
“Nine,” he said.
Dr. Halpern looked up, surprise evident on his face. “That is correct,” he replied, his tone reflecting genuine approval.
Clarence leaned forward, lowering his voice as though sharing an important secret. “I figured it out by subtracting Tuesday from two hundred and seventy-four.”
For a moment, silence filled the room. Then laughter erupted. Arthur laughed until his shoulders shook. Bernard laughed, tapping his cane lightly against the floor. Dr. Halpern laughed as well, wiping moisture from the corner of his eye. In that moment, the clipboard seemed far less important than the sound filling the room.
When the appointment concluded, the three men rose slowly and made their way outside together. The sidewalk was warmed by sunlight, and they walked at an unhurried pace, continuing their playful debate. Arthur insisted his answer worked within a different kind of mathematics. Bernard defended Tuesday as a universally correct response. Clarence smiled quietly, content with how the exchange had ended.
People passing by glanced at them with fond curiosity, watching three friends move through the afternoon with laughter and ease. From his office window, Dr. Halpern observed them for a moment longer before writing his final note:
“Memory uncertain. Spirits excellent.”
