The Art of Ignoring Desire

She walks to his door, the wood so warm and familiar with faint touches that were once described as something beautiful. Her eyes were bright, and I stress the word ‘were’, because as of late they were looking dull. Her fingertips brushed over the door, the handle, getting a sudden rush of metallic longing to twist it. Just to twist it, and open it up. To fall into that room like she had many times before, to breathe in the scent that lingered on the carpeting and tapestries. For a moment she held her lungs to stop them from constricting, imagining this possibility. It wouldn’t be that hard. All she had to do was curl her fingers around that handle and push, push like she always had. She had memorized on which hinge the door creaked on, she had memorized the floorboards and which ones groaned in protest under even her slim weight. It would be so easy to step into that room. But almost as if it were on cue, she reminded herself gently that longing wasn’t what she came for.
A letter, tucked into the pocket of her skirt.
Ink, splattered onto her fingers.
The envelope slipped under the door frame.
Inside, the shuffling of bed sheets, ones that she remembered being tangled in. Now warm with others.
The floorboards in the hall did not creak as she departed.