The Door
I stared at the door in total confusion. What on earth was I doing here? My mind had wandered, and, without thinking, my feet had brought me to the doorstep of the old flat, the one where Margaret and I had lived together for nearly twenty-five years. Now I stood there, gazing in surprise at that door right under my nose. Really, it was just a doorone like any other in this block.
It was covered in old brown faux-leather, stitched into diamond shapes, each corner pinned with brass studs. Except for one: a silvery one. I remembered fitting that myself some fifteen years ago when the original went missing and the leather bulged untidily there. My clumsy handiwork, but it did the job. Among the gold, that single silvery stud shone out like a lone star. I stood and looked at it for a long while, feeling no urge to move on…
* * *
It was a year ago that my life took a turn, precisely when I thought I was prepared for it. My job had become mind-numbingly dull and predictable; home, with its tranquility, felt like a sluggish, lukewarm swamp that threatened to swallow me. Everything seemed drab. I was gasping for colour, some spark, some reminder that life could be vibrant.
Like a drowning man, I searched for anything to cling to, anything that could pull me to shoreback to laughter, a world bursting with life, where Id matter and feel truly alive again. For me, that momentary lifeline turned out to be my secretaryJessica.
She was young, beautiful, a whirlwind of loud music, expensive perfume, and the sweet tang of champagne. I fell for herhard. I remembered, by contrast, my shy warmth for Margaret back when we first methow quiet and gentle that had been, set against the explosive rush of feeling Jessica brought. Those old emotions seemed pale now, almost dreamlike.
Perhaps Margaret sensed change coming, some sixth sense telling her another had stepped between us. She turned quiet, watched me with wordless questions in her eyes, searching for a truth she never found.
My affair with Jessica took flightdizzying, intoxicating, all-consuming. I spent my every spare minute and pound on her. Yet, even as I lost myself in the thick of it, habit tugged me home at night, making me long not for oysters at a restaurant but for Margarets homemade fishcakes, waiting in the fridge.
How long could things have gone on as they were? No telling. But Jessica finally tired of being the other woman. One day, she arrived at our flatdetermined to claim me properly. Margaret and our son, Adam (off at university but home that day), listened in silence as Jessica spelled it all out. While Margaret clutched her chest, wordless with shock, Adam briskly packed my things into a suitcase, and, with no ceremony, put the both of us out on the street…
* * *
And so, life with Jessica began. At first it was a relentless current: endless dinners, trendy bars, boutiques, showsmy world was swept up in Londons flashier side. Its hard to say when exhaustion crept in, but eventually, I was honest with myself: I couldnt keep up.
I resolved to take a breathliterally and figuratively. I stayed home one day, slouched into an unfamiliar armchair, and tried to understand my new life. Frankly, what I saw startled me at first and then steadily wore me down. Jessica, perfect on the surface, was utterly unprepared for the daily rhythms of real life: she couldnt cook, couldnt manage the home, muddled through the simplest chores.
But that was just the half of itJessica and I had nothing to talk about. Her whole world was paper notes and glossy wrappers, a string of likes and comments online. I tried, at first, to teach her somethinganythingbut any spark of deeper conversation fizzled. I soon admitted defeat.
Resigned, I quietly accepted my new reality: each evening sipping dreadful tea shed makebarely steeped with a grocery store tea bag. My mind wandered to Margarethow perfectly she brewed her Earl Grey, how that aroma still haunted me, how stirring was her shepherds pie, her roast joints. She was a marvellous homemaker. I even missed the evenings wed sit, arms linked, debating the latest book or British film.
One night I tried returning home. Not to stayat least, thats what I told myselfbut simply, perhaps, to… what? Even I couldnt say why I knocked on that familiar door. No one opened. From the cold hallway, I heard quiet sobbing inside. I turned and left, spending hours on the wall outside, watching the windows that had once meant home to me, the light finally flickering out.
Time rolled on; the gulf between Jessica and me grewthat familiar gap that divides unlikely couples. Jessica’s simple ways irritated me more and more, and my own lethargy infuriated her. Our evenings became solitary. And so, somehow, I ended up here, once again before our old flat door.
* * *
Now, I just stared at that crooked, shiny studfixed so awkwardly by my own handand wondered: should I walk away? Where would I go? Jessica, who Id given everything up for, hadnt cared for me in a long time. Could I stay? Would they take me back? Forgive me?
I couldnt tear my gaze from that lopsided stud. Almost in a trance, I reached out and touched its chill smoothness. Suddenly, the door eased open. A wave of that familiar home scent hit me, thick and warm. Eyes squeezed shut, I savoured ita piece of my being restored. When I opened them, there was Margaret, standing in the kitchen doorway, crows feet framing her smile.
Im home, I thought. I stepped forward and quietly closed the door behind me.
