I opened the door and walked in to the smell of coffee and the sound of grinding, mixing up the drinks.
I beg the risk to diminish, with every door I open, sounding dramatic as ever with the use of the word “risk”.
I enter the coffee shop, to meet someone, someone I cannot spot. I wish I could walk through that door, looking as confident as possible, so I wouldn’t stick out as I try to find my way to any available table.
I hear familiar voices and would need to walk toward the sound. Instead, I sit and wait for those familiar voices to come and find me.
Ordering in a crowded shop, I choose to stay put. When I enter into a door like this one, this week, I can never be sure what I’ll find.
Is it busy or not? Are there any seats free or no? Will people stare at me as I make my way, clumsily by, or is it all in my head, unseen by my broken eyes?
Then I step back out the door, gently nudging someone with my big, bulky winter coat as I go. Oy boy, I wish I hadn’t done that, leaving someone I’m leaving with to apologize to them, for me. It’s enough to make me want to stay at home.
As we exit the door, out onto the street, I walk with another girl, trying to have a normal conversation together as we make our way to the car. Other than the tapping of my cane, as I slowly make my way along the sidewalk, I am free from the finding of doors and the risks within.
We enter the doors to the library and there are two. If I walk slightly off, on an angle in the wrong direction, I miss the next door I’m looking for.