pockets

The door closes behind her with a clunk altogether far too loud.  Moments, lathered in thick tension, spent waiting before the elevator doors.  With strange man she invited into her home for an even stranger transaction, together uncomfortable now that it’s over.

The elevator descends, whirring and screeching, with its passengers in the thick of murky silence.

They exit and a tremor strikes at her gut.  A sinkhole in the middle of her, the soul of her falling into the pits of worry.  She checks her hands: a phone gripped in one and a purse clutched by the other.  Surely, she didn’t?  Surely, she hasn’t.

He leaves, a smile and a wave, forced gestures made in weak commitments to some polite farewell.  She tries a smile back, but she’s sure some other expression flashes across her face in its stead.

She dives into the elevator.  She slams the button with an open palm.

Her feet agitate at the floor, anxious desires for the elevator to hurry its climb.

She barrels into the hall and she runs up to her door.  She pushes.  It offers no give. 

She pushes.

It remains.

She slides onto the carpet, a flustered pouty thing.

Her keys rest on a table, scarcely a metre from her, on the other side of the door.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *