While we sit over coffee and tea, 

I ask him about the Window,

if he has ever glanced beyond its curtains.

 

He sips my tea accidentally 

and spills hot water on himself 

when he realizes. 

 

With a sigh,

 

and a breath, 

 

he tells me about the time he almost slithered all the way through the Door.

 

How the threshold 

had beckoned and blurred

every time she crossed his mind. 

 

He milks his tear ducts,

and ducks his face into his steaming cup

like a duck searching for insects in a pond. 

 

When he resurfaces, 

his mouth holds not a pile of bugs

but a stiff, stick-like smile—

 

a bell jingles—overlapping voices; laughter; honks; 

the effervescent clack of shoes snogging sidewalk;

the crowded bustle of the city 

 

penetrates my mind, pulls me to the woman

who stands hesitantly at the café door.

I draw the curtains back from my Window:

 

I imagine walking up to her

and, gently leaning against the doorframe, 

intoxicated by the fresh air of the threshold, I…

 

I finish my tea. It’s lukewarm.

His voice, chilled:

“What do we do?”