Short story: Doorman

The concierge, sharply dressed, raps the door, gift in hand.

The councilor swings around, pulls his robe closed, peers through the champagne bubbled glass.

Knocking the pattern bruises the concierge's hand.

His other hand is occupied with the gift.

The councilor presses himself against the door. His pupils shrink to pinpoints.

The concierge grows tired.

He digs it.

The councilor exhales into his chest.

He opens the door.

The concierge falls, exhausted.

His thirst is quenched with champagne and kisses.

The front door is left unattended.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: knocking, quench, concierge, councilor, and shrink.

Image courtesy of George Arriola.