The Closing Door – Fiction

Writing prompt:  write about a closing door

The door swooshed as it was pushed open, the air migrating from one side to the other.  She felt the fine hair at her temples move, blown by the breeze, and the tickling sensation gave her a chill.  She was cold, unfeeling.  Isn’t that what he said?  He was wrong, so wrong.  She was hot, on the verge of sweating, the moisture gathering above her upper lip and under her arms, making her armpit stick as she raised a hand to brush the hair back off her forehead.  And unfeeling?  She felt everything, every nerve fiber vibrating with the pain of longing, of loss.  The acuteness of it made her want to scream, cry out, but she knew it was already too late.

She watched his hand leave the door, leaving a smudge on the glass.  How many times had she complained to him about having to clean handprints off the glass?  It must have been nearly sixty, since she complained about it almost daily.  No, wait.  Less than sixty, when you take into account weekends.  Two months, four weeks in a month, five days in a week, so forty.  Forty times he had heard her bitch about handprints on the door, and he couldn’t bother to use the handle as he left?

The hinges squeaked as the door started closing, the sound echoing through the room.  She needed to call maintenance to oil the hinges, had been meaning to do it for weeks now.  She had noticed that it rarely squeaked when it was opened, but always when it closed.  Probably because it was pushed open too fast, but the spring load at the top allowed it to shut slower so it wouldn’t slam, and the slowness stressed the hinges enough to squeak.  Or scream, she thought, the corners of her mouth turning up.  As if the door knew she couldn’t and was doing it for her.

Her smile drooped as the latch clicked against the door jam, moving inward.  The hammer being pulled on the gun.  She fought the urge to duck under her desk, knowing it wouldn’t really provide her any protection, because there was no tangible threat.  Nevertheless, she grasped the desk, waiting for the death blow.

The door thunked closed, echoing through her soul.  The significance of the sound, the finality of the moment, was not lost on her.  The door closing behind him, on their relationship, leaving her locked in here, cooped up, abandoned, left behind.

She stared through the glass, watched him push the elevator button, look at his watch, run his hand through his hair.  She saw the light come on, heard the ding of the elevator through the glass, watched the doors slide open.  He boarded without looking back.

Categories: My writings, Writer Sara Johnson | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

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