Knock Knock

In the kitchen, I sauntered over to place cookies in the oven. My hair in a high pony tail, my outfit a big t-shirt and high nike socks. I dance around the kitchen per usual, eating cookie dough off of the spoon when it comes. In the middle of the night, I hear it loud and clear. The sound of knuckles richly knocking at my wooden door. The spoon falls out of my hand. My stomach lurches forward. I look frantically for some pants to put on but realize all my clothes are in the wash. Shit, I think, I don’t even have my make up on. The voice on the other side of the door can see me although I can’t see him. To see him, I would have to accept him, to open up to him. He tells me there is no use in getting dressed, he’s already seen everything, this was about my decision, not his. There is no way to fail this. So I stop bustling. I walk closer to the door slowly. I place my hand on the door knob and don’t move it, thinking for a moment to myself all that could go wrong. But then I realize, I have heard these fears a million times, this isn’t something new. Maybe something different wouldn’t be so bad after all. So knocking on my door that night was love, and I opened it quickly without another thought out of sheer curiosity and desire to do something different.

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