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Ricochet

You're at the threshold of the house, wiping your shoes on the mat. Of course you're nervous.

This isn't the first time you're entering a place, but entering a new place is always a little tricky. So you took a little extra care this time around. Made sure the week leading up to it was as stress-free as possible. Negotiated a few slippery spots and curves on the approach road with surprising dexterity. Tried to relax and stay loose as you walked up the front yard. Rotated your shoulders and released a little tension between the blades and your neck. Repeatedly wiped your palms on your trousers to get rid of the cool sweat beads. Gave up. Clenched your fist, let it hover on the door, and began wiping your shoes.

You knock. The door opens immediately and you step in. Tentatively, because its a new place. And then, steadier and more confidently, each tread followed by the next in a slow but rhythmic pattern. You see the door you want and begin walking a little faster, your hand already reaching out for the knob.

And you trip. Without grace, poise or equanimity. Land in an awkward heap on the floor, stunned. Physically, sure. But mentally also, because you'd navigated the start so smoothly... and were so close to the door. Gathering what's left of your breath and energy (since insouciance deserted you long ago), you force yourself into a half-sprawl, half-sitting position and look for the culprit. Which is a weather-beaten, warped floorboard.

Branded with the word GUILT.

Of course.

Song for the moment: Walk - Foo Fighters

*Full-to metaphorical. Just. 

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