Thursday, May 14, 2009
The dance floor is empty. The music is gone. The dim light puzzles her. Is it afternoon or morning by now? How long has she been sitting here? She stretches; her hands caress the smooth wood. Lanes of oak march to the walls. A snag catches her attention. She bends over the spot while her fingers set about their familiar work: picking at the blemish, trying to smooth it out, to make it perfect. She tears off a splinter, rarely noticing the pain. Her fingers are marred and ugly from the constant digging. The blood usually stops fairly quickly anyway. She must stay focused. The floor is big.
When had she noticed the doors? The half closed doors? They line up around the room haunting her thoughts. She averts her eyes. No. Her body tries to speak. Its voice is pained and exhausted. It's tired of this job. The taskmaster forbids her to look at the doors. There are too many. Besides, what would she do with them? Open? Close them? She knows the truth. She is stuck in a life of half-closed doors. The new beginning efforts are futile because there have been no endings for a long time now.