The Bread Handle

The lobby granite cools under my fingertips. I press the handle, dense, yielding bread, warm inside. It smells like salt and fermentation. I stand in the space where I have been, but never crossed. The tiled floor resists my weight. Across the hall, a dark rectangle of wood gives way, opening not into a room, but another door. This second door has no hinges, merely appears, painted a flat, unreflective grey. I touch the jamb. A single, sharp pressure settles in my chest, a quiet absence that does not belong to anything. A dog walks past, its weight too much for its ribs. I follow the opening, past the breadth of the second door, into the space beyond.