He chooses to sit next to the damn door. He chooses, in the hope that she’ll walk through it, even though he knows she won’t.
It’s a big, heavy, wooden door and it needs oiling.
Every time it opens, it squeaks and his heart lurches, like a horse stumbling at the first hurdle. But it’s never her and he has to reign in his galloping heart.
After a few minutes, the tightness eases until the next squeak. Again it’s not her.
Squeak. Still not her.
Squeak. Not her.
Finishing his drink, his times up and…squeak.
He walks out the damn door.