Conversations in Solitaire III: JD
Follows Conversations in Solitaire II: Buck
It's stupid the things that we fear. Those common everyday things that leave our mouths dry and our palms damp. Look at me -- standing here in front of a simple wooden door, completely unnerved by its stoic presence.
It's not even an impressive door. One kick -- weight shift, follow through with the heel; just like Buck taught me -- and it would be hanging by a hinge. Unless the dead bolt is locked; which it isn't. Not once in the year and a half I've lived here, has the bolt been slid into place. Odd how safe I felt here. Protected from everything. . .. . . except myself.
I'm stalling.
I don't need to kick the door in anyway; the key is digging grooves into my fist. But there's something seductive in the thought of destroying the door that divided my world.
To be fair, it isn't really the door's fault. It just happened to be there when Casey asked me to chose between the woman I love and the life that I've made for myself.
Stopping speeding bullets has nothing on the tone in her voice when she told me to go. If I'm honest, I left as much to give back some of that pain as I did because it was my duty. Love isn't kind.
The bland paint beneath my fingertips is smooth, cool. I press my palm against the wood, straining to feel any of the residual warmth that should be here.
Nothing.
Even the building is telling me that I've lost the right to be here.
Mrs. Demarco from next door is giving me an amused look as she unlocks her own apartment. I can almost hear what she's thinking. //Locked yourself out again, JD? I told you to find a hiding place for the spare key.//
I want to tell her that I have my key; to prove that I still belong to this place. I want to tell her my fiance is just on the other side of the door; I can knock and be welcomed back in. I want to tell her that everything is normal.
But it's not true.
Oh, I have the key still, but the rest of it. . .
She closes her door before I say anything.
Leaving me to face the door alone once more. The key bites my hand again, reminding me of its existence. Memory born of route draws my hand up, fitting key to lock. I twist the knob experimentally and step inside. The apartment is silent, solemn in the dying light.
I stand for a moment, a fool in the false shelter of the doorway uncertain of the reception that awaits. I don't know why I hesitate. I deliberately chose a time I knew she would be here. Thought we could talk at least. Stop my world from vanishing without at least a token resistance.
She knew I would.
Her absence throws that in my face.
Casey is through talking.
No. . .
Not quite. . .
A bright piece of captured light sparks at me in the dying afternoon, missing the fire she lent it. Gold and diamond flash as I lift the delicate message from the small table. Eternal brilliance extinguish as I tuck the ring into my pocket.
I fill the table's newly formed void with the dull silver of my key.
The End