The Library of Doors

The books breathe warmth. I stand between the shelves, a green enamel cup resting on the edge of the reading table. The ticking of the wristwatch, no hands, measures the air pressure. I press my back against the stacks, a hundred bodies moving around me, none seeing the dust on my collar. A door, oak paneling and tarnished brass, slides open and reveals another door, painted the colour of rust and dried lavender. I step through the opening. The next door is sealed shut, a heavy black wood. I place a hand flat against the cold wood.