He knew that as soon as he turned that knob and opened the door it would all flood down. The lights would hit the streets and the sky would resemble an ocean. Already he could sense the abandonment, the escalated terror of drowning and breathlessness. Yet, he had to open that door. He didn’t expect anything dark and horrifying, only a torrent or a tsunami.
The knob was made from a dirty late 18th century brass. He couldn’t see it, but underneath a quarter inch of dirt there were decorative engravings. The knob might actually be quite elegant if given a proper cleaning. But all he could see were his imagination’s shadows projected onto a dimly lit door bound to unleash a storm. His hand encapsulated the entire knob and the sweat on his hands caused the dirty knob to shed its top layer. He didn’t notice. There was nothing to notice anyways, only the drag of anticipation holding him back like an anchor. Yet, after a quick twist of his right wrist he firmly pushed the door open with wide eyes.
The scene immediately contradicted his thoughts. There was very little to see, only pieces of crumpled paper occasionally covering an aspect of a dusty wooden floor. The nails on the floorboards protruded quite a bit and he nearly tripped on his first step. She was facing the far left corner while sitting on the floor. From her hunched over physique he could tell she was writing. He could also hear her delicate typing. She stopped as soon as she noticed a presence, but failed to turn around. She merely stopped as if to listen to a whispering one could scarcely hear.
Outside a lone dog was barking in the distance. The familiar smell of the restaurant downstairs emanated through both their windows. He stood there for about a minute just looking at her back, at her horrible typing posture. He tried to think of something to say, but really he hoped she would turn around and say something first. Even eye contact would help him find the words to help them progress to another and better place of mind, but nothing happened. She never resumed typing and hardly moved. Eventually, He retreated by taking the same path he used to advance and closed the door gently behind him. Who would want to ruin the moment of writing?
That’s precisely when the rain began. At first it was a drizzle that followed him as he walked from his room to his couch and back towards his room again. By the time he advanced towards the tan and stained couch for the second time the rain picked up its pace. Now whole droplets were falling from his head and little puddles were growing on the linoleum. He knew she’d get mad when she found the mess. He could hear her voice already:
What, you expect me to clean up after you? I’m not your mom. You’re
a man aren’t you? I work all day, why do I have to come home to
a dirty place? When I wash something it should at least be clean for me
when I use it! What do you expect? For me to constantly clean after you?
But he couldn’t help it and he didn’t truly care. He resented it. Of course he was a man! How could she say that? Doesn’t she know how much that hurts…what that means to a man to hear?
Soon it was pouring inside. He heard warnings for a flash flood and was told to take cover by strangers. Incase of lightening he should stay on dry land, but he didn’t want to. No, he demanded to stay immersed and to feel the coldness of the water on his skin. He lusted for the pain of skies to drench him so as to feel connected with his inability to connect.
After approximately ten minutes he grew cold and felt his hands shiver as he rubbed them over his legs. We sat cross legged on the floor in the midst of a quickly growing puddle of rain water. He cooled off and felt cold. From beneath her door he saw a light coming out. Was it sunny over there? Was it warm with clear skies? In this condition it was worth discovering the truth.
He slowly stood up and felt the quasi numbness of his legs and knees briefly paralyze his ascent. Thoroughly soaked, he trudged towards the door. Already he could feel a sort of warmness wafting from her door only 8 to 10 feet away. Nothing could keep him out, he felt assured that as soon as he crossed that threshold that his bones would warm and his shivers fall from him.
Now right outside her door, he could feel the heat. The light sneaking through the door cracks were brighter than he had originally realized. It was more than merely warm in there, it was hot. Why? He reached for the knob as it nearly burnt his hand, but braved the heat and turned.
It must have been 90 degrees in there. No, maybe even a hundred. The crumbled papers he previously saw upon her floor now appeared dry and thinned out. There was aridity to the room. Surprisingly she was still facing the corner. This time, however, she wasn’t typing and she wasn’t moving. Already the corners of his shirt and pants had begun to dry and he felt quite comfortable. In fact, although he hadn’t noticed, he stopped shivering while standing outside her door. His curiosity ultimately distracted him from his ice hard pain.
The wood panels this time appeared older and somewhat bleached out by the brightness of her room. He approached her while leaving a slight foot trail of water on his way. Seconds after stepping down each wet impression would evaporate back into the air.
When he touched her should she immediately turned around. Her face was slightly burnt from the sun and she couldn’t speak. The dryness of it all caused her to lose her voice, that is, her throat was far too dry. She looked weak…weak and reddish. Remembering the comparative cool wetness of his shirt, he dropped to his knees and pulled her in to cool her down. A moment later, he helped her to her feet so they could leave the room. She could hardly walk and depended upon him to keep her self firmly balanced.