The Red Door:
There is a red door in our neighborhood. No one opens it because no one is there.
It stands stark and odd against the white house it’s affixed to, like a cardinal sitting in a snow storm. I knew a girl whose life died there once, whose dreams and schemes stayed behind that door when her mother passed and she moved to Brooklyn.
By some anti-divinity’s wishes, the house remains unsold. It seems cursed, haunted even. Maybe it’s not there at all.
The red door has never needed a second coat of paint. It never prunes, never withers, doesn’t sag; just lays flush, fluid, and smooth against the house frame like the immaculate skin of a young fresh fruit.
The girl who lived there had eyes like rubies and a diction riddled with holes that education couldn’t fill. But she stood in that vermilion doorway, and we used to talk.
Her phrases fed me like food, and before I met her, I didn’t know I was starving.
I could feel my teeth sinking into the crunchy, crisp skin of her colorful words.
I tasted it, that fresh, filling, feeling, of fulfillment, and friendship.
The snap of that sever, like biting into a bitter apple, when the first piece came flying free into my mouth, and it was best to swallow and never bite again reminded me of that shiny, red door.
It held a terrible kind of knowledge.
If I opened it, would I find sweet meat?
Or a barren core?