The Door Between Us

This is the sixth story in this summer’s online Flash Fiction series. Read the entire series, and our Flash Fiction from previous years, here . My apartment’s in an old wooden building, built who knows how many years ago, just one story, with two separate units, side by side, stuck between dilapidated houses no one lives in anymore. Imagine three old shacks that would have fallen down already if they weren’t holding one another up, and you’ll get the idea. My living space consists of one tatami room, a tiny kitchen with a single-burner stove, a leaky shower. There’s no storage. Out back, the space for drying clothes is all but taken up by the A.C., and it feels as though the wall of the house behind me is closing in. There was a woman already living in the unit next to mine when I moved in, but the real-estate office wouldn’t give me her name, and the doorplate on her unit was blank and yellowed from the sun, and we’d never spoken. She was tubby, with this scraggly long hair, always wearing the same clothes, and, not like I’m one to judge, but let’s just say she didn’t exactly have her act together or keep things sanitary. Nobody came to visit her. Each time I saw her, something in her slumped-over posture told me that she was either apathetic about life, or was exhausted, or had given up, or maybe all of the above. She had this tic. When she locked her door on her way out, she couldn’t keep herself from rattling the knob, over and over, unable to accept that it was locked. The sound was so violent that, the first time I heard it, I was sure that someone scary had shown up to collect on a loan, but it was only her. Each time she left the house, she nearly pulled the door off its hinges, and all that yanking left noticeable cracks in the wall, between her door and mine. But, I have to say, I have a sense of how she felt. […]

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