A Heavy Boundary

The edge of the rug ended. Hard parquet stretched toward the doorway. I stepped past the table leg, keeping low to the baseboard. At the foot of the door sat a wedge. Heavy cast-iron doorstop, shaped like an old keyhole. Cold surface, pitted with black enamel. I tested its flank with both gloved hands. Solid weight. It did not budge an inch. I wedged my back into the shallow recess between the iron wedge and the door frame, finding the exact contour that concealed my silhouette. A guarded threshold. I watched the hall corridor, waiting for nothing to move.