The Door of Unmade Choices: Chapter 15

 

CHAPTER 15 – THE RELATIONSHIP DOOR

 

Another appeared for Frank between a florist and a payday loan office. It was narrower than the others. Taller, too. Like it had been stretched upward, trying to look dignified. The wood was pale, almost soft-looking, as if it had been handled too much in its life. No scorch marks. No glowing seams. No hum. Just a door. Frank stopped short when he saw it. Resigned the way you know you have to answer a phone call from someone you’ve been dodging for weeks.

“This one’s different,” he said.

All doors were all different. He knew that. I knew that. But I wasn’t about to bring that up. Best to focus on the more pressing matter of what may lie on the other side.

“What do you see?” I asked.

Frank didn’t answer right away. He stared at the door as if seeing whether it would blink first.

“There’s no music,” he said finally. “The others had something. A vibe. This one’s just… quiet.”

I moved closer. The doorframe was warm. Like a cup of coffee you forgot about but still has some lingering heat.

“Relationships don’t usually announce themselves,” I said. “They just happen. Or don’t.”

Frank laughed once. It came out wrong.

“You always talk like that?” he asked.

“Only when I don’t want to talk about myself. So, yeah, always.”

The door wasn’t locked. It also didn’t have a handle. No knob. No latch. No obvious way in or out. Just smooth, uninterrupted wood, like the idea of access had been deliberately removed.

Frank raised his hand anyway, then Hesitated. Lowered it.

“I know this one,” he said.

“Then you don’t have to go in.”

“That’s the problem,” he said. “I’m already in.”

The surface of the door thinned like morning fog finally burning off. And suddenly we weren’t standing on a sidewalk anymore. We were watching another Frank standing in a kitchen. This version was older, but not by much. Softer around the edges. He was laughing at something a lovely brunette woman said as she reached for a mug in a cabinet that squeaked when it opened. The sound hit Frank beside me like a punch.

“Oh my god,” he said. “It’s her. Rebecca.”

The scene moved the way memories do when they’re not being curated. Moments moved randomly in sepia tones. Arguments that didn’t explode. Apologies that landed late but still counted. Silence that was tired and melancholy. A shared look across a room that said we’ll talk about it later and actually meant it.

“This isn’t the great love story,” Frank said, his voice tight. “This is Tuesdays. This is laundry. This is knowing how she takes her coffee.”

“That’s usually the part people miss,” I said.

The other Frank leaned against the counter, listening. Really listening. Not waiting his turn to speak. The woman touched his arm in passing, her fingers lingering before letting go. The scene didn’t show a breakup. It showed forks in the road that looked insignificant at the time. A phone call not returned. A vacation not taken. A job taken because it made sense. A belief that there would be more time later.

Doors love later.

The vision began to thin. The kitchen faded. The sound of the squeaky cabinet lingered longer than it should have. Frank stepped back. The door solidified again. Still no handle.

“I can’t even knock,” he said.

“No,” I said. “This one doesn’t want entry. It wants recognition.”

He pressed his palm flat against the wood and hung his head.

“I thought the career door would hurt the most,” he said. “But this one. Damn.”

“That’s because you can outrun success,” I said. “You can’t outrun intimacy. It knows where to find you.”

Frank nodded. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, annoyed at himself for giving in to emotion. When he stepped away, the door didn’t vanish. It stayed, quietly waiting as if it had unfinished business. Doors always have unfinished business.

*****

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