I freeze. Something hits the door with a soft thunk. I can see myself in the mirror propped up against the wall on the tiny table; the one that Amadeus has just knocked the lamp down from. It's a horrifically funny picture, hair sticking up every which way, wide, tired eyes. It's pitch black in the window behind me, like someone painted a backdrop and shoved the night against my window, pressed close.
I swing my legs over the side of the couch, my feet feeling tight and my throat feeling tighter. When does the insanity end? I wonder, a thought both hysterically funny and hysterically frightening. Hysteria builds. I inch towards the door. My senses stretch, I become sharp and keenly aware. The door looms over me, the doorknob glitters, a heavy brassy smell. I grasp it, the cold burning my hands, and I wrench the door open.
Bracing myself for terrors of all sorts, I come face to face with a small white envelope. Foot to face, I should say, that is, if envelopes have faces. It was slightly warm, like it had been sitting on top of a heater or furnace, but not long enough so that it would have been in danger of bursting into flames, or marring the smooth, glowing surface. Weird-ass time for the mail to be arriving. (We all know who's in denial here.)
The door slams behind me, and I recoil in what can only be described as agony. Even though the door always slams behind me, (to the point that I don't notice it any more), I'm in such a heightened state of disarray that I stifle a scream and nearly fall over. The door's calm blue paint (nearly identical to that which graces the office window sill) regards me evenly, measuring me up, almost. I cave. I'm no match for a door.
Gathering my wits, I stand and tuck the envelope carefully against my side as I fumble with my keys. After several embarrassing incidents which involved me (tired, drunk, disheveled), the serene-yet-perpetually-slamming blue apartment door (arrogant, contemptuous) and the act of waking up the landlord (wearing nothing but a pair of white underwear and thirty plus pounds of excess flesh) to retrieve an extra set of keys, I kept one on a chain around my neck for events like this when the door is feeling particularly nasty or playful.
After my blue latex-coated guardian grudgingly lets me in, I collapse in a heap onto the couch, the room cold and silent, the city outside of my window sleeping in it's own peculiar fashion, with the horns and swish of tires snoring, and the occasional chatter and laughter rattling the air. The window has been pushed open, and several drops have found their way into the room, clinging in bubbles to the stereo and dissolving into the carpet. I contemplate the envelope that is tucked under my arm, still warm, still glowing faintly. I guess I can rule out any possibility of late-night mail delivery; the service around here is not what we call top-notch. Is someone stalking me? Do I have to move, now that they know where I live? Maybe it's the person who's been slipping me the drugs. Giving me weird dreams and weirder realities.
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