I stare at the door well-rehearsed and ready to write the script to my own funeral. There could be anything on the other side: euphoria, everlasting bliss; my worst fear, regret. I swallow hard hoping the lump in my throat dissipates enough so I may soon conjure speech. My palms are sweaty and my heart is starting to sink; it seems like my sympathetic nervous system has been activated, fight or fight at its greatest.
I’m dressed for the morgue, already assuming failure. Draped across my shoulders is the shirt I bought last week for seventy-five dollars in preparation for this moment. My hair keeps falling in front of my eyes, a sign that the gel is no longer keeping its hold. The smell of the gel mixes with the cologne I’m wearing and creates an overwhelming aroma that seems to systematically wake me from my state of disillusion.
It’s time, I’ve stalled too long as it is. My hand grasps the silver door handle tightly and a phantom rattling can be heard, almost sounding like I’m trying to break into the room. I take a final breath in a feeble attempt to relax. Three minutes from now my life is going to take a sudden turn in one of two directions, the immaculate or probable.
I swing the door open and take a step forward, momentarily forgetting to take my hand off of the handle until I’m met with resistance. Feeling foolish already, my hand drifts off the wooden surface and begins to push the door shut. It makes a clicking sound before closing completely. Without warning I’m instantly staring past her eyes; the monologue that I thought was flawless now seems mundane. My mouth opens but no sound comes out.
DannYetmanhttp://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/
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