Yellow Door

Steve found himself stumbling down a short flight of steps, catching his fall with a hand on a yellow door. It was shiny and clean, spotless in fact. Steve marveled at the lack of smudges, even where he had placed his hand. He was not sure where his was because he had been wandering in deep thoughts. His feet had carried him here on their own volition it seemed. He crouched and could not find a water spot despite the fact that the ground was wet from an earlier rain - the washing truck was just at the end of the block. The yellow color was that of the sun, bright and burning. He touched it again and it was warm.

He knocked. Waited. Nothing happened, there was no sound from the other side, so he put his ear to the door. It opened slowly, just an inch. Steve waited again, but nothing more happened. For what seemed an eternity, he thought about his options: opening the door, leaving, peeking inside, calling out, doing something, doing nothing. Which is what he did, nothing. He was frozen in anticipation.