The Green Tile Wash

The bread handle is warm, heavier than it should be. I push it and a gap appears, an opening not quite a door, just an expanse of dark wood. Beyond that opening is another door, painted matte black. I notice the air smells of chlorine mixed with damp earth, the smell of the empty pool. On the black door, a single brass number plate reads 3. I trace the cool metal with a finger. The ache settles in my chest, a specific weight that is not mine, belonging to someone I do not know. I step through the gap, my sock brushing the threshold. The second door remains closed, its wood surface absorbing the ambient pool light, a muted nothingness.