The Brass Key and the Wet Light

The chlorine smell hangs heavy in the cool night air. Water drains from the deep end, running down concrete steps where the grout is stained pink. I hold the brass key; it radiates warmth, a heat that feels correct in my palm. Near the pool wall, a ceramic bowl sits empty, filled only with a layer of iridescent film. I brush the film with my thumb. The weight of the key seems tied to the bowl. A doorway across the far end of the pavilion opens, revealing a second, deeper doorway that smells of cedar and dust. I step toward the frame. The light from the first door spills onto the tile floor, illuminating the second door, which is painted a faded turquoise. I reach out and touch the handle of the turquoise door. It gives. I step through.