The Door

There is a period between Jon and Jon when the universe shudders a little and presses its weight into my spot on the rug in front of The Door. The Door is both Jon and Not Jon, a memory of his departure and a promise of his return, and between naps I stare at The Door in suspended expectation.

You likely know Jon as he is the most important human in the world. You can recognize him by the smell of burnt tires and the taste of salt behind his ears. Jon bursts into shouts when I lick the salt off, which I find exhilarating. Jon is, in his own words, a Good Boy. Jon eats popcorn and gives me every fourth piece. “One for me, one for me, one for me,” and one for ME. The popcorn tastes salty, like Jon.

There is a jangle of keys in the hallway, and I am awake. I am awake, and I am listening. The keys sometimes jangle past The Door and down the hallway, and on those occasions I sigh and go back to sleep. Right this moment I hear jangle stop in front of The Door and I am awake. I am awake and I rush to the door, where I smell burnt rubber and petroleum and salt.

“Hello, Jon, please hurry!” I shout through The Door, “I hope your ears are very salty today!” I shout, and the keys jangle, and The Door opens.