The sound of his boots

 

I hear the sound of my best friend’s boots on the stairs the moment I open my door to leave. The heavy thud of heals reverberates with each foot fall, and I panic.

I can see the man’s grim face in my head, his mouth set in a deadly determination as his march up the stairs brings him closer and closer to me.

I look one way then the other along the long hall and I know I cannot escape before he appears.

Yet I’m scared to go back inside where he might trap me.

Or even give myself away with the rattle of the keys in the attempt.

So I freeze, my life caught up in that single unmoving frame, afraid to come or go, terrified at my own inability.

His shadow shows first at the end of the hall, dark and ominous, hate and head partly silhouetted against the wall.

Then, the man appears, turning the corner from the stairs.

He coughs from too many cigarettes, then calls me by name, his boot steps hurrying along the wooden floor to where I stand.

“So there you are,” he says. “What about the drink you promised me?”

 

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