The sharp scent of alcohol in the restaurant’s table disinfectant bought with it a pang of fear, distant, reminiscent of the pediatrician’s office… with the wrinkled Highlights that accidentally tore from the staples, and the flower print wallpaper with its pastels and beige, and the scale that clunked happily, and the plastic cups with their little lids and the yellow “pee-pee” inside them, and the vinyl bench with the tissue paper cover that slipped and popped and crackled the silent waiting, and the nice doctor who swept in with his hushed tones and his calm, reassuring, checking fingers, and again the silent waiting… and the nice nurse who walked in who always seemed to be lying to his face when she pulled out the sharp plastic, the pathetic whimpers, and the gripping fingers, the loud voice; and the ensuing, panicked terror which lingered and mingled in the air after the vicious snap like and with the sharp scent of alcohol that stuck in his mind like the white cotton that stuck to the red dot on the tip of his finger.