Chapter 13: Doorknob Cold
The front door was only six steps from where I'd been standing, but I counted every one.
I shifted the white bag higher on my right shoulder and the chain made its soft clicking sound against the strap. The keys were in my left hand, the metal biting into my palm. He hadn't moved from the edge of the couch. His sleeves were still rolled to his elbows, his hands clasped together, knuckles pale. The flag on the wall behind him hung straight and still, and the light coming through the windows made the rug look warmer than the air felt.
I didn't look at him while I walked. I looked at the door. White paint, brass knob, the deadbolt above it that he'd flipped earlier and then flipped back. The wood floor creaked once under my sandal and I kept going until my toes were a foot from the threshold.
The doorknob was cold.
I hadn't expected that. The apartment had been warm all afternoon, the sun on the windows, but the brass was cold when I wrapped my fingers around it. It was smooth and heavier than I remembered, and the chill shot up through my hand to my wrist. I didn't turn it. I just held it. I could feel the faint etched pattern under my thumb and the way my pulse was beating against the metal.
I took a deep breath then. It wasn't steady. It caught halfway and I had to let it out through my nose and take another one. My dress shifted against my knees when I inhaled, the side slit falling open just enough to let the air hit my skin, and I was suddenly aware of how tight I'd been holding everything — my shoulders, my jaw, my grip on the bag.
"You left the lock alone," I said, without turning around. My voice was quiet.
He didn't answer right away. I heard him breathe.
"I did," he said.
I kept my hand on the knob. The cold was less shocking now, just present. I could hear the lamp humming faintly on the side table and somewhere down the hall someone's television was on, muffled.
I needed to say it before I could turn that knob. If I didn't say it now, while I was still inside and he was still listening, it would get swallowed again.
"If I come back," I said, "there are conditions."
I felt more than saw him lift his head.
"I'm not asking who I dress for. You don't ask. Not again. Not like that. Not ever."
The words came out smaller than I wanted, but they didn't shake.
"No locks when I'm home. No moved keys. If I put them down, they stay where I put them."
I tightened my hand on the knob. It was still cold, but my palm had warmed a circle on the brass.
"Do you understand me?" I asked.
For a second there was only the light and the cold metal and the sound of my own breathing. I stared at the thin line where the door met the frame, at the strip of light coming through underneath that meant hallway, outside, air that wasn't this apartment.
"I understand," he said.
It was a short sentence. No please after it. No explanation. His voice was low and it didn't reach for me.
I didn't move yet. I wanted to be sure he'd heard the whole thing, not just the sound of it. I finally turned my head enough to see him in my periphery. He was still seated, hands still clasped, eyes on the floor near my feet, not on my dress. His brow wasn't furrowed anymore. He looked tired.
"Say it back," I said.
He swallowed. I saw his throat move.
"No more asking who you dress for. No locks. No moved keys," he said.
We stayed like that. My hand on the cold knob, the door still closed, the keys warm now in my other hand, the bag secure against my side. Agreement was in the room but it hadn't been tested yet. It was just words hovering between the rug and the flag and the closed door.
May you like
I took one more breath, and this time it went all the way in.
I didn't turn the knob. Not yet.
