Frozen letter

The young man is standing silent and still, studying the green door in front of him. The number 417 hangs on a plaque in the middle of the apartment door just above the dark peep hole. He is holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand, but doesn’t move to knock with the other. He knows he has avoided this moment long enough. Too long. But all he does is stand and stare.

The elevator dings and a heavy, panting businesswoman strides out and passes the statue at apartment 417. “Good evening,” she huffs, and continues to her own apartment at the end of the hallway.

The young man musters his reply after the distant door closes and locks with a loud click. “Evening, ma’am.” He turns his head back to the door, lifts his hand out to reach for the knocker, but hesitates. His hand drops back to his side, defeated.

After a few moments, the young man reaches inside his coat and pulls out a blank envelope. He tucks the flowers under his arm so he can open the envelope to peek at the letter again. He has read it a hundred times already, but he has to peruse it once more. He flips the paper over so he can read the back and then returns it carefully into the envelope.

He is not sure he can believe what’s written in the letter, but that is why he is here at the door of her apartment, with flowers in his hand and frozen from fear. It’s going to be a long night.