The Handle of Day Bread

The upstairs of the house smells of old dust and lemon polish. I press the finger against the door handle; it is bread, pale and warm, yielding beneath the knuckle. It resists the turn. I step into the hallway. A man waits there, wearing a thick charcoal suit, his hands resting on his hips. He looks at me. I attempt to say my name. The sound catches in the throat, breaks apart. The syllables float away, lose color, become transparent. The man tilts his head, waiting for the solid shape of the word, but the air takes it. He smiles, a faint, quiet curve of the mouth, and I feel the weightlessness settling in my bones. The kitchen doorway is painted a flat yellow, and the floor tiles are slick with something dark.