Door

Sunday, April 27, 2025

I must look like I’m meditating. I’m not. I’m waiting to die.

I sit, foursquare on a bric a brac dining chair behind the empty boho cafe counter, palms on my thighs, waiting for impact.

I’m waiting for the sound of an old school shop doorbell, the kind designed to call staff running from their back room when a customer arrives.

I’m fighting an inchoate, terror-soaked impulse to flee, with the only thing I have: intense concentration. The most I can do is clench my eyes shut, so at least I have the extra few seconds of not knowing the end is a few seconds away. Here I sit, eyes closed. Experiencing my final moments as fully as I can.

Fiction