The Mirror
Every day, she walked up to the door with the question on her mind — is it open or is it locked?
No day was the same. Sometimes, the door was unlocked long before she arrived. On other days, when she tried the knob, the door rattled its displeasure.
Every day when the door pulled open effortlessly, she yelled in celebration, “Yay!” silently in her mind where no one would be bothered.
When it was locked, she sighed deeply, though no one was around to hear.
The door was ordinary and old, with flaking chips of paint discolored from years of direct sunlight. Dings in the metal were less rainbow-colored than sadly muted, a testament to neglect and prior overuse.
The door was merely a portal into an even sadder bathroom. Years ago, someone had chosen the cheapest installations that were long-lived. Amortized, long past, the stall doors were worth mere pennies a day. A fact that only the original accountant would have cheered at.
Ancient grout held dirt like it was the most precious thing it could own. Even if a janitor cleaned the bathroom religiously, calling the bathroom dingy was being generous.
The bathroom functioned as designed and was the best anyone could hope for.
Her footfalls echoed on the cold, dirty tile as she moved in front of the…
