Stuck

The key in the lock is bronze. The lock is bronze, and old, and the keyhole is too big. When I take the key and turn it, there is space enough for me to wiggle the key a little. I know no one is going to come in - I’ve closed the door, after all - but I turn the key anyways, two turns. The lock clacks.

It’s always dark in this bathroom. The varnish on the wood is a deep brown, so no matter how bright the light is that shines through the window over the sink, I usually turn on the light. I do so now, and lift up the toilet seat with its wicker cover.

When I am done, I go to the sink to wash my hands. Grandma likes to buy soap in interesting shapes. This bar is a scallop scented violet. I wipe my hands with a fresh towel and turn as if to leave. The key is in the lock still, so I turn it to the left. I pull at the door, but it doesn’t open.

I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack. The key rattles a little in the too-big space, but it does not unlock the door. I shake the door.

“David? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right.”

I sit down on the floor. I do not want to ask for help. I get up. I turn the key again. No clack. I shake the door some more.

“David?”
“I’m stuck!”
“You’re what?”
“Help!”