The Door

The Door

Peter Thompson found himself staring blankly at a door. What on earth was he doing here? Hed must have drifted off in thought and, quite on autopilot, his legs had carried him to the threshold of the old flat where he and his wife had once spent nearly a quarter of a century together. Now he stood there, baffled, inspecting the familiar door mere inches from his nose. It wasnt anything particularly specialdoors like it lined the corridor, one in every two at least.

This one was upholstered in mock leather, finished off with a diamond pattern held down by brass studs. Only one stud, he remembered, shone in silvera clear misfit. That, Peter recalled fondly, was his contribution to the place some fifteen years ago, when the original had mysteriously vanished, leaving the upholstery to droop awkwardly. Hed rolled up his sleeves, patched it up himself, and ever since, amid all those golden sisters, this single silvery star had stood out. Peter lingered, gazing at that silver dot, and didnt feel much like leaving…

* * *

Peters life had been upended a year agoright at the very moment he felt absolutely ready for a change. His job, blissfully uneventful and infinitely secure, was stifling him. Home life, meanwhile, had become an oozy, tepid swamp where he was slowly sinking. There were no fireworks, no adventures, just the muffled greys of routineand oh, how he craved a splash of colour, a spark of anything, really. He was the very image of a man grasping for a twig to pull himself from the muck, hoping to reach the brightness and bustle of a world he surely remembered from somewhere. A world with real life in it.

That twig turned out to be his secretary, Amelia.

Amelia was young, luminous, and stormed into Peters existence with loud music, expensive perfume, and the taste of Prosecco on her lips. Peter fell head over heels. He remembered, then, his younger dayshis tentative courtship with his future wife. Back then, hed thought those shy little feelings were explosive. But next to Amelias whirlwind, those memories felt as faded as old wallpaper.

His wife, seeming to sense the storm brewing on the horizon, grew quiet and pensive. Shed look into Peters eyes, searching (and failing) to find the answer to that age-old, unspoken question women always seem to ask…

The affair was a fast-moving, reckless delight. Peter felt young, wanted, adored. He gleefully threw all his hours and every last pound he had into his new romance. Still, habit remained a stubborn little root. After oysters in swanky restaurants, hed find himself, late at night, rummaging in the fridge for one of his wifes glorious homemade meatballs. Old comforts die hard.

How long this lopsided arrangement might have lastedwell, who could say? But Amelia soon got tired of playing the other woman. She showed up at the flat, bold as brass, ready to have it out with Peters wife and drag him away properly. His wife and university-age son were both home. They listened, stone-faced, to Amelias matter-of-fact speech. While his wife stared at the wall with a packet of tablets in one hand, the son swiftly packed all of Peters things into a large suitcase and silently rolled both lovers out the door…

* * *

Thus began Peters brave new life. He was swept away on a tide of dinners, drinks, art shows, designer boutiquesa dizzying, noisy carousel from which he barely had time to catch his breath. When exactly all the fun began to feel a bit… exhausting, Peter couldnt say. Admitting that the frantic pace was actually too much for him was harder still.

So Peter declared a break. Quite literallyhe settled into an armchair and tried (with limited success) to get the lay of the land in his new reality. At first, his discoveries only surprised him. In time, they began to irk him. Amelia, dazzling and decorative as an exotic macaw, was woefully unfit for actual life. Housekeeping? Cooking? Not a clue.

But that was only half the troubleAmelia, as Peter realised, was spectacularly, irreparably dim. Her world rotated around crisp new notes, shiny wrappers, and social media admirers. At first, Peter had gamely tried to fill that pretty head with something, anything, remotely useful. He soon saw every attempt at a serious thought caused her visible, almost physical, pain. So he gave up.

Evenings became a quiet endurance test, with Peter drinking grim, teabag tea whipped up by Amelia, and reminiscing about his ex-wife. Now there was a proper cup of tea! He could still conjure up, eyes closed, her perfect brewthe scent, the taste of proper leaves. Her Sunday roasts? Dont get him started. Her chicken à la Kiev? Out of this world. Honestly, his old wife was the gold standard for domestic goddessery. He couldnt help but remember those peaceful evenings when theyd cuddle up, quarrelling amiably for hours over a book or the newest Polanski film…

Once, in a weak moment, Peter had tried to go home. Not foreverjust, you know, for old times sake. Hed never be able to explain quite what brought him to that building so late at night. No one answered, and from behind the door he heard that unmistakable sound of his wifes forlorn weeping. Hed turned and left, sitting down in the dark courtyard, gazing at what had once been home, until every last light flickered off…

Time passed, and the gulf of yearsthe sort that inevitably splits such ill-matched couplesyawned ever wider. What Peter once found charming in Amelia now grated. Amelia, for her part, found Peter more of a damp rag with each passing day. They stopped going out together. Evenings were mostly spent apart. And thats how, one fine day, Peter somehow, without knowing quite when or how, found himself standing in front of the old flats door.

* * *

He stood there, fixated by that crooked, silvery stud hed banged in so badly, and wondered what on earth he should do next. Turn and go? But whereback to the indifferent young woman hed once gambled his whole family for? Stay? Did he even dare hope for forgiveness or a second chance here?

That silly, wonky stud was all he could focus on. Peter reached out and grazed the metal with his finger. The door swung open, suddenly, effortlessly. A wave of comfortingly familiar home smells washed over him. He closed his eyes and breathed in, long and deep. When he opened them, there in the kitchen doorway stood his wife, smile cracking the corners of her eyes with new lines. She was beaming. Im home, Peter thought, stepping in and closing the door behind him.