Through the Door

The metal latch hung low. Creak. A narrow slit stood open to the dark. A thick plastic laundry basket blocked my path. I leaned in heavy... shoulder first. Slide... scrape. The rough wicker groaned against the tiles, giving way an inch, then two. Inside, a round brass buckle caught a sharp slant of afternoon sun falling across the linoleum. I reached out. Clink. My finger pressed it against the washing machine's cold white foot. The sound died quick, but the metal stayed warm against my palm.