The Bread Handle Lobby

The lobby tile is jade, cool under my bare feet. I do not know the building, only the polished geometry of the entrance. My thumb rests on the handle; it is rye bread, still soft with a slight warmth. It weighs exactly the same as a solid brass handle, a fact I accept. I look past the reception desk, across the empty space where a potted palm should sit. There, another door waits. It has no frame, just a black rectangle in the wall. I trace the outline of a chipped ceramic bird on a side table, a piece of blue that has no equivalent in the light. I reach for the bread handle, my fingers settling over the rough crust. I press it. The door does not open, it simply shifts, folding into a second, identical door.