One Line

The tire blows in the loading zone. A rider weeps into his phone, leaves one star, vanishes. My girlfriend says enough. The line goes dead.

I walk to the library. Chairs are damp. Tall windows hold the grey. Paper smell steadies me like a hand on my shoulder.

I open my notebook and copy the lives I half know: the nurse, the contractor, the wife who made me choose. I try to draw a map that holds them. It won't.

An old man sits, reads, adds one line in my handwriting.

I see the door I drew.

I open it.