Going Nowhere

June 17, 2016

It had been nearly a year since I had stepped foot in this building. The door swung open with its usual hesitation. The man at the desk cracked a curve of his lip as he nodded to me, as if signally I had finally arrived. The elevator was as small as before, the tight space not helping the tightening in my stomach.

 

The floorboards creaked as I walked across the carpet from the 1990’s. The wall were painted a new eggshell white, the same color as before but not covered in dust and dirt. I stopped in front of my door - my old door - for a second. I remember trying to burn the numbers into my brain so I wouldn’t forget them. I didn’t need to, they willingly stayed.

 

That memory mirrored the numbers of the door down the hall. Apartment 409 still had the rusty red paint on the door. The rusty gold numbers accompanied it, reminding me of the last time I had stood here. I thought it was going to be the very last time. But here I am, crawling back.

 

My bag stayed at my side like an obedient dog. It didn’t get impatient as I held my knuckles against the wood, gaining the energy to press them down and down again. The wheels were as resistant as I was. For the moment, there was no rush, but as soon as it started moving, it had to be forced to stop.

 

There wasn’t really a need to knock. If I still knew Michael as well as I did before I would assume the door would be unlocked. Maybe if I just pushed my way in it would clear some tension. If I knocked, would that seem too serious? I wish I had a key, just to give it an even medium.

 

The doorknob didn’t resist as I turned it. The lock unlatched and with a shove, I was entering an old memory. I took a cautious step forward, testing to see if there was a minefield were a meadow was supposed to be. My bag trailed behind me, as cowardly and pathetic as I felt.

 

The aroma of Indian food and cleanser was still the same. The living room was crowded with the same stacks of CD’s; Mikey’s guitar resting in the corner. Everything as it was. It was as if I had never left.

 

I pulled my bag around the apartment as I traced the path back into Michael’s room. My suitcase leaned against his, making me believe I had double vision for a second. The singular case was never accompanied, it always sat in the same position, looking new and fresh. Now there was wear to it, stains here and there from going through terminals and new cities.

 

He still had the posters hung up. The only thing that seemed to be different was a small printed map in the corner of the room. Stepping closer, the black and white map had been colored in by country. The colors varied back and forth, between red and blue. One color indicated 2015; the other 2016.

 

“Anna?” The door slammed shut behind Michael.

 

“I’m in here!” I yell over my shoulder.

 

Plastic bags are rustling and I follow the sound out into the living room. I can see Michael through the doorway, placing bags onto the counter in the kitchen. I follow him in, taking some of the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter.

 

“I wanted to surprise you,” Michael states, sounding as if I had ruined something he had been planning for months.