The Hinge

The front door creaks. It’s mother taking a last peek outside, scanning the yard, checking the road up and down, before closing the door with another creak and locking it for the night.

When she’s upstairs brushing her teeth, I sneak to the door and squeeze some oil on the hinge. Doubly a hinge, tonight everything will depend on it — mother is such a light sleeper.

Then I lie in bed waiting to hear her soft snores, and I’m thinking about him, waiting for me. He said I wouldn’t do it, said I wasn’t that kind a girl. Am I?

In the morning mother opens the door to retrieve the paper — and pauses. She swings the door back and forth, leans to examine the hinge.

Now she knows what kind of a girl I am. He knows too.

Do I?


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