The Door
Peter Edwards stands, bewildered, before the door. How has he ended up here? Absently, hes found himself at the threshold of the old flat where he and his wife spent nearly twenty-five years together. Now, he stands, staring in surprise at the door right under his nose. Its an ordinary door, not unlike many others in the block.
Covered in imitation leather and studded with brass tacks arranged in diamond shapes. Only one of the tacks is silver Peter remembers how, about fifteen years ago, when the original went missing and the leather sagged in an unattractive lump, hed repaired the covering himself. Now, among the golden cluster, a lone silver tack gleams like a star. He gazes at the silvery spot, making no effort to leave
* * *
Peters life changed dramatically a year ago, right when he thought himself prepared for it. The steady, uneventful job was wearing him down, and the atmosphere at home, comfortable as it was, felt like a warm, sticky bog that slowly dragged him under. He felt starved of excitement, colour, life itself.
In his desperation, he searched for the tiniest thread to help pull himself to the surface somewhere vibrant and noisy, somewhere festive, a place where he could feel alive and needed, if only by himself. That thread came in the form of his secretary, Charlotte.
Charlotte burst into Peters life like loud music, the scent of expensive perfume, and champagne on the lips. He fell in love, swept up by her youth and beauty. When he thought of his old affections for his now-wife gentle, hesitantly sweet memories they seemed pale and distant in comparison to the emotional fireworks Charlotte brought.
His wife, as if sensing change brewing and another presence entering their lives, grew quiet and withdrawn. She would often search Peters eyes, silently seeking the answer to a womans timeless question, and always came up empty-handed.
The affair took off quickly and intensely; Peter felt young, needed, truly adored. He eagerly threw himself into this new romance, giving it all his time, energy, and money. Yet even then, he hadnt been able to leave his family old habits tugged him back to his familiar bed, drove him after seafood dinners to rummage in the fridge for one of his wifes delicious homemade burgers.
Who knows how long this balancing act might have gone on? But Charlotte grew tired of her role in the shadows and one day turned up at Peters home intent on speaking with his wife and taking Peter with her. At home were his wife and their student son. They listened in silence as Charlotte gave her polished speech; while his wife struggled to compose herself, son quickly packed Peters things into a large suitcase and wordlessly ushered both his father and Charlotte out the door
* * *
And so began Peters new life: a dizzying, relentless whirlpool of events. Endless meetups, restaurants, film screenings, boutiques, all blurring before his overwhelmed eyes in a rapid, noisy stream. Its hard to pinpoint when it began to exhaust him. Admitting to himself that he couldnt keep up with this feverish lifestyle was even harder.
So Peter decided to catch his breath. Literally so he retreated to an armchair at home, looking around, trying to finally make sense of this world hed entered. At first, what he saw simply surprised him. Then it started to grate. Charlotte, for all her dazzling charm, was remarkably ill-equipped for ordinary life. She couldnt keep house and couldnt cook to save her life.
But that was only half the trouble talking to Charlotte was impossible. She was astonishingly, irreparably shallow. Her world revolved around rustling banknotes, shiny wrappers, and collecting admirers online. At first Peter tried to interest her in a bit of practical knowledge, but soon realised that even the faintest mental effort sent Charlotte into fits of agitation. He gave up trying.
He let her be and settled in for evenings of awful tea, hastily prepared from a bag by Charlotte, while his thoughts drifted to his ex-wife. She always knew how to brew the most wonderful teas, and at this very moment, Peter could close his eyes and almost smell their fragrant, herbal warmth. And her casseroles, her homemade burgers what more was there to say? Shed been the perfect homemaker. He found himself remembering their quiet evenings together, arms entwined, debating some new book or a Ken Loach film for hours in peace
Once, Peter had tried to return home not to stay for good, but just to visit. Even now, he couldnt say what led him to the old flat that late evening. No one answered. From the chilly hallway, he heard the muted sobbing of his wife behind the door. He turned and left, sitting outside, gazing long into the flats familiar windows. He watched until the lights went out.
Time passed, and the gap between their ages which widens inevitably in such pairings grew ever more stark. Peters naive young girlfriend began to irritate him, and Charlotte found Peters passivity exasperating. They stopped going out together. Their evenings drifted apart. And at some point, Peter, hardly knowing how, found himself once again before the old flats door.
* * *
Peter stood, staring at the crooked silver tack, hammered long ago by his unsteady hand, uncertain of what to do. Should he turn and leave? But to where? To whom? He knew hed become irrelevant to Charlotte the very woman hed once left his family for. Should he stay? But would they accept him back here, would they forgive, or just turn him away?
That wobbly, ill-fitting tack nagged at him. Peter reached out, touching the cold metal with a fingertip. Suddenly, the door swung inward, easily, unexpectedly. Familiar scents from the home washed over him he closed his eyes, drinking in the recognisable aroma. When he looked up, his wife stood in the kitchen doorway, tiny lines at her eyes, smiling.
Im home, Peter thought. He stepped inside and let the door shut quietly behind him.
