The Lobby of Wrong Doors

The jade-colored fruit sits on the marble reception desk. Its weight pulls my arm down, a steady pressure I keep monitoring. I stand in the foyer, the polished floor cool against my bare feet. The architect’s drawing boards line the wall where the entrance should be. There is only a sheet of dark green velvet hanging taut across the archway. The reception man smiles. His suit jacket is charcoal gray, the lapel embroidered with silver thread. He gestures to the three waiting chairs, a pale yellow and a seafoam green. I look back, tracing the corridor's width with my eyes. The corridor’s threshold is empty air now. The silence here holds a low hum, the sound of distant typewriters running continuously.