She knocked on the door again–for the last time, she told herself. There had never been no answer.
She knocked again and buried her face into the lapel of her grey Calvin Klein. It was cold.
She thought back to the first time she knocked on his door, when she invited herself over to drink his vodka and snoop through his stuff and block his driveway with her luxury automobile. You left something behind, he reported the next day, referring to the scent she had worn. Stop by tonight to pick it up.
Never one to shy from playful confrontation, the woman began leaving things at his house, which guaranteed a return trip so she could forget something else: You left something behind… Stop by to pick it up. It was cute.
But the ritual took a toll on the man, who seemed to age between visits. His body grew gaunt, sick. She asked of his health always; he waved away her concern, smiling.
Last night she left a silk scarf. Tonight she was going to leave a key to something special. She placed it in front of the door and marched back to her automobile-which was blocking the driveway.
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