The Door
Peter Johnson gazes blankly at the door, bewildered. What is he doing here? Imagine thathe must have drifted into thought, his feet unknowingly carrying him to the threshold of the old flat where he and his wife spent nearly twenty-five years together. Now, here he stands, peering curiously at the door right in front of his nose. An ordinary door, really, just like every other on this floor.
Its padded with faux leather, stitched into diamond shapes and studded with brass tacks. Only one is silvera memory flashes for Peter: some fifteen years ago, the original went missing, leaving the cover sagging oddly. He fixed it himself, and ever since, that one silver tack has glinted among its golden sisters like a tiny star. Peter stands there, staring at the silvery mark, in no hurry to leave.
* * *
Peters life changed a year ago, at precisely the moment he felt ready for change. His jobso steady and securefelt suffocating, as did the home life that resembled a warm, sticky swamp, pulling him under, starving him of colour and passion. He lacked the vividness, the thrilllife itself.
He sought escape, as if drowning, grasping for the slightest twig to haul himself into a world of bright lights and cheerful voices: a place of celebration, far from the endless grey routine; somewhere he would feel alive and needed again. That little branch, for him, came in the form of his secretary, Daisy.
Young and striking, Daisy swept into Peters world with blaring pop music, the scent of posh perfume, and the taste of sparkling wine. He fell in love. He remembered his first crush on his future wife, but the gentle, hesitant beginnings of that old romance seemed pale now beside the heady rush Daisy brought into his life.
His wife must have sensed some nameless threat; she grew subdued and silent and sought answers in his eyesanswers to that ancient, unspoken question all women know.
The affair blossomed swiftly, passionately. Peter felt renewedwanted and adored. Happily, he surrendered his time and money to his new love. Yet even then, he wasnt quite ready to leave his family. Habit tugged him back to his familiar, soft bed, and after posh seafood dinners, he would find himself late at night rummaging in the fridge for his wifes homemade meatballs.
How long would this strange situation have lasted? Whos to say? But eventually, Daisy tired of playing the mistress. She turned up at their flat to hash it out with Peters wife, intent on taking Peter with her. His wife and university-aged son were home. They listened to Daisys confident speech in silence. While his wife clung to her heart medicine, the son silently packed his fathers things and, with barely a word, showed both Peter and Daisy out the door.
* * *
A new life swept Peter alonga blur of endless outings, restaurants, gallery openings, and expensive shops. Its hard to pinpoint when he first began to tire, yet harder still to admit, even to himself, that the whirling pace was simply too much.
So Peter decided to pause. Literally. He sat down in an armchair in their new place and tried to take stock of himself in this unfamiliar world. At first, what he saw surprised him; soon, it seriously annoyed him. Daisy, a dazzling creature in theory, was completely unprepared for the simple realities of daily life. She couldnt run a home or cook a meal.
As if that wasnt enough, Peter soon realised he had absolutely nothing to talk about with Daisy. She was irretrievably, heartbreakingly shallow. Her whole existence revolved around rustling notes, pretty packaging, and admirers online. At first Peter tried to teach her something useful, hoping to spark real conversation, but even a minimal amount of thinking seemed to cause Daisy actual pain. He gave up.
No longer trying to change his lover, Peter resigned himself to sipping hideous teahurriedly brewed from a bagand thinking nostalgically about his ex-wife. She made the perfect brew; Peter can, to this day, picture the fragrant, herbal aroma with his eyes closed. Her homemade stews were outstanding. Her meatballswhat could be said? His former wife was the ideal home-maker. He also found himself reminiscing about their evenings, side by side, arguing amiably for hours about a book or a Polanski film.
Peter did once attempt to return homenot permanently, justfor some reason he couldnt quite explain. That late evening, he knocked on the old flats door, but no one answered. As he stood in the chilly hallway, he could hear soft weeping on the other side. He left, eventually sitting for a long time in the courtyard below, staring up at what had once been his windows until the lights finally went out.
Time marched on, widening the generational gap between Peter and Daisy until it became a chasm. He grew increasingly annoyed by his foolish young lover; Daisy found Peters passivity ever more irritating. They stopped sharing evenings out; they lived, increasingly, apart. So it is that, scarcely knowing how, Peter now finds himself before the door of his old flat.
* * *
He stands uncertain, gazing at that awkwardly fixed silver stud; he isnt sure what to do next. Should he turn and leave? But where would he goback to whom? The young woman he once chose over his family has long ceased to care for him. Remain? But could they ever take him back? Would they forgive, or just turn him away?
That little, wonky tack will not let him rest. Peter reaches out and touches the chilly metal with his fingertip. The door, to his surprise, opens without resistance. The familiar, heady scent of home washes over him. Peter shuts his eyes and breathes deeply; when he opens them again, his wife stands at the kitchen doorway, fine lines gathered at her eyes as she smiles. Im home, Peter thinks. He steps forward and quietly closes the door behind him.
